Never Again
by RussianWolf7
Summary: Dean walks in on Sam having some alone time and decides there are better things to do than leave. Sam freaks out but makes the best of the situation. After all, it's just one time, right? As long as it doesn't become a habit or anything...
1. Never Again

**A/N:** This is Wincest. Straight up Wincest. Humor/fluff/romance/smexytimes. A good mix of everything. But _Wincest_. And there are smexytimes in this chapter. You have been warned.

That said, enjoy! It's silly, fluffy (not quite yet but soon), romance (perhaps unrequited perhaps no, you shall see), and smexy. Also my first Supernatural story, but I had my longtime SPN fan girlfriend check it for me and she said my characterization is spot on. I wouldn't go so far as to say that-she _is_ my girlfriend after all, she does have to say nice things to me-but it has been vetted.

All I ask is that if anyone reviews, please don't say any spoilers. I'm currently in the middle of season four and I'm leading a sheltered life. Thank you ^_^

**Chapter One**

It was late, and Dean wasn't back at the motel yet. Likely, he had been successful in his mission to find the nearest bar and take home the hottest girl—take home meaning her place, the no-one-night-stands-showing-up-in-our-motel-room-past-midnight rule having been firmly put into place several months ago. This meant Sam had the room to himself and, well. That could work in his favor.

Sam didn't pick up girls in bars. He never had and he never would. Occasionally, when Dean was particularly drunk and insistent, he would fake it, but that ended in a laugh and possibly a beer or two in the parking lot while Dean did what he did best. Sometimes also a phone number, which Sam politely refused. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy spending time with the girls, especially the ones who didn't mind spending a few hours camped out in a parking lot pretending to have sex, and it definitely wasn't like he didn't miss sex itself, but it never felt quite right. And he always had the easy fallback of _I'm leaving town in a day or two_ to fall back on when the real reason for staying alone was too close for comfort.

Sometimes literally, depending on when Dean stumbled out to the car.

Or, more concerning, when Dean came out to the car far too sober and looking at Sam like he thought he knew something.

So it wasn't like Sam was going to go find someone to bring back and screw around with, but there were always other ways to enjoy himself.

He turned on the TV and flipped through the stations, settling on something too cliché, too scripted, and likely too plastic to be really enjoyable, but it was all he could find. Apparently one porn station was all the motel thought it needed, and that was without having wifi, free or otherwise. Still, better than nothing, and Sam settled himself back against the pillows, wondering if it was worth attempting to absorb himself in the plot or if he'd rather admit that he was jerking off in a depressing motel room for the thousandth time in a row.

There was both a hardhat and a pizza box lying next to the bed and only one of the two actors—_stars_, rather—was male, so it seemed easier to focus on the plastic breasts, collagen lips, and oiled abs than try to figure out why someone would be delivering pizza and performing construction work at the same time.

_Maybe he answered the door while doing construction_, Sam thought absentmindedly as he started palming himself through his jeans. _Or she already had the pizza_.

Sam decided he was more than ready to admit this was considerably less than engaging, but having it on still made him feel like it was more—allowed?—than if there was nothing. Stupid, he knew, but also irrelevant.

He closed his eyes, listening to the high, breathy cries of _oh god yes there yes don't stop ohh_ and uninspired grunts as he undid his fly, wiggling his jeans down below his ass but no further. Conditioning from living with Dad one room over for most of his teen years. Eyes still closed, now tuning out the noises as well, he focused purely on himself, on the way the cotton of his boxers felt against his cock, the tightness of his hand, how Dean's new jeans—

Sam forced his eyes open and his concentration on the porno. Not that it really mattered, not that he wouldn't be thinking about him anyway, but at least pretending he wasn't jerking off to his brother, at least at the beginning, was probably a better idea. Less guilty.

But god, the actors were so unattractive it was actively turning him off. Who wanted breasts made of plastic? What demographic found that attractive? And the guy's muscles were obviously, literally oiled: Sam had never used oil in his sex life, and never planned on it. Nothing about it was remotely sexy.

Regardless, he did have a hand on himself, and it was difficult not to respond to that. Abandoning the teasing he generally preferred, Sam slid his boxers down to join his pants and started touching himself in earnest. There really wasn't any point in drawing it out when his inspiration consisted of a porno that turned him off or his own brother and so he didn't, instead moving with quick, precise strokes, rubbing over the bundle of nerves beneath his crown, swiping along his slit, wrapping his fingers around himself and tightening his grip as he stroked down.

Not the most satisfying, but absorbing enough that he assumed the sound of a door opening came from the television.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Sam jerked, trying to pull his boxers and jeans up with one hand and get the blankets out from underneath himself with the other, nearly falling off the bed in the process.

"I didn't—what're you doing here?"

"It is my room," Dean said, opening the minifridge and stuffing something in a plastic bag inside. "That I paid for with my hard earned money."

"Gambling money," Sam retorted, still struggling. He couldn't bring his knees up to cover himself without making it impossible to put his clothes on, and he was still having trouble with sitting on the blankets he was trying to be underneath. "It's late. I thought you'd be out."

"Yeah, I thought so too," Dean replied, flopping onto his own bed. The mattress let out a groaning, springing noise at the addition of his weight. "What're we watching?"

"I don't—we?" Sam momentarily stopped fighting with the fabrics. "_We_ aren't watching anything."

"Yeah?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow. "TV's still on."

"I'm a bit busy here!" Sam exclaimed, suddenly realizing what was causing the majority of his problem. Dean's arrival had—_encouraged_ what was already there, and he was having a very difficult time fitting into his jeans. "The remote's on the table, be my guest."

Dean stayed silent for a moment before saying suddenly, "Oh, the construction-worker-pizza-delivery-boy. I remember this one. Pretty crappy if you ask me. Oh Sam, your poor standards."

"It's all that was on," Sam grumbled, yanking up his boxers and ignoring his pants for now. Also ignoring how little the boxers did to hide the situation. "Crappy motel, crappy selection, _crappy timing_."

Dean was flipping through the channels, and didn't seem bothered by the accusation. Why was it that Dean had to be impossible to phase while Sam himself was a dark, cherry red, and harder than ever?

"That was your signal to leave," Sam said slowly, like he was talking to a small child. "Along with walking in on me and, I don't know, everything else I've said."

"Tired," Dean said. He arrived back at the porno, heaved a great sigh, and tossed the remote back onto the table, television still on. "It's late, and I had a very unproductive evening."

"Yeah, well, I was doing just fine," Sam snapped. "So if you could kindly leave—leave, um. N-now. Dean, what are you doing?"

Dean glanced over, face entirely innocent except for the fact that it wasn't at all. There was a smirk hiding behind his lips—beautiful lips, perfect lips, made for—his eyes were sparkling—beautiful eyes, perfect eyes, better only if—and he was definitely not stopping undoing his fly with his hands that Sam wouldn't allow himself to even start to consider because good lord, those hands.

"I told you, it was an unproductive evening," he said like nothing was strange, like he wasn't pulling down his pants and boxers and in a second Sam would be able to see— "There weren't any hot chicks at the first bar, the second was filled with _couples_—" he said the word like a swear "—and the third was a biker bar which isn't inherently a bad thing, but apparently I don't wear enough studded leather to be considered biker material."

An image flashed through Sam's mind and he pushed it away.

"So you're going to kick me out of my own room to take over jerking off," Sam said flatly.

"No," Dean replied lightly. Much too innocently. "Never said you have to leave. By all means, stop being such a prude and go back to business."

Dean had angled himself so that his leg hid his erection, and Sam focused on that instead of his words, which were clearly nonsense.

"Excuse me?"

Dean rolled his head to the side, smirk taking over any feigned innocence. "Sammy, are you embarrassed by a little nighttime indiscretion?"

Sam gaped at him. "Yes! Yes I am! With you in the room, abso-fucking-lutely I am!"

Dean let out a quiet sigh that went straight to Sam's groin, closed his eyes, and turned so he was facing the ceiling again.

"Suit yourself, but I'm not leaving."

"I was here first!" Sam said petulantly, knowing exactly where this line of argument was going but unable to help himself. He didn't have access to higher reasoning, and besides, he shouldn't _need_ any reasoning other than Dean was his_ brother_ and _no_.

Aside from yes.

_No._

"I'm older," Dean replied, and Sam realized he could watch his movements by the way his arm flexed, moving muscles highlighted in different ways by an up- or down-stroke, how tightly he was holding himself, when he paused to do Sam-didn't-know-what because he couldn't see.

"I'm bigger," Sam said, then immediately added, "Taller, I mean. I'm taller."

Dean snorted. "Sure that's what you meant. I'm broader—oh. Wait. Through my shoulders. I'm stronger."

"I'm—" What was next? This fight was practically scripted, but between the porno, his erection, and Dean, Sam was completely lost. "I'm better."

"But at what?" Dean asked, shooting another smirk at Sam. "I'm better."

It took Sam a lot longer than it should have to reply. "Jerk."

"Bitch." Dean's breath hitched, and suddenly Sam was aware that his hand was back on his cock, squeezing in time with the rhythm Dean was setting, and he gave up. "Now shut up, I'm busy."

Fine, great, good idea, because Sam was busy too. He positioned himself roughly the way Dean was, blocking his erection from sight, and immediately his hand was below his boxers, shoving them down just enough to pull out his cock, choking back a low moan at finally touching himself again. He was positive he hadn't been this close before, and he was positive having Dean in the room shouldn't help, and he was positive he had long ago given up pretending it didn't.

No. Not him being in the room, that was new. But Dean in general. Thinking about Dean. Dean in the next room while Sam pulled one out in the shower. That one time Dean had left his leather jacket in their room and Sam had buried his face in it.

Dean in the room was better.

Sam was vaguely aware that his breathing was uneven and he was letting out quiet, needy noises, but it wasn't important. The part of his brain that needed a backup plan at all times reminded him that he'd been at it longer than Dean, that he'd had a head start, so it natural that he was closer.

Maybe a little strange that his louder moans came after one of Dean's noises, or that he was looking over at Dean more often than at the movie, but as far as he could tell, Dean's eyes were closed and he wasn't focused on anything but the task at hand.

At.

Hand.

Sam bit his lip, turning the other way, focusing. The sooner this was over the better. It shouldn't have happened in the first place—to be honest, he wasn't completely sure how it _had_ happened—and it needed to be done.

"_Jesus_."

Sam whimpered. On a bad day, when he was particularly distracted, Dean's voice could get to him no matter what the circumstances were or what he was saying. These circumstances in particular, though. Sam whimpered again, only it was really a moan, and he was dripping precum, not at the edge yet but close. Despite all logic, he didn't really _want_ to be close, didn't particularly need for this to ever end, but given that it would, if Dean would just say that again, say anything, Sam was fairly certain it would be over very, very quickly.

It would be regardless. Sam's cock was slick, his movements easy and fast, his body taking over to provide as much pleasure as possible.

Sam spared a glance at Dean. It wasn't something he couldn't help.

Dean's leg had dropped, and Sam could see everything. Time spun, everything in fast forward and slow motion at once, and it was stupid really, he'd seen Dean naked before, but oh god this was…

Dean was wider but not as long. He was a dusky red, nearly purple at the tip, uncircumcised (of course, so was Sam), unshaved. Leaking almost as much as Sam, thrusting up into his hand rather than stroking himself, no doubt imagining he was fucking some girl. Tendons on the top of his hand stood out, tightening along with the muscles in his arm. Sam had no idea how close Dean was, but he himself was gone, so far gone. He managed to look away, snapping his neck nearly hard enough to give himself whiplash as he turned, riding the edge for a split second before everything turned to a pulsing, bright light, all focus centered on his cock and balls, spurting out through his fingers and onto his shirt and then sliding down his hand. The low moan he let out was unavoidable, but at least it hadn't been Dean's name.

Coming down took longer than usual. For every noise Dean made—and they were getting louder and closer together—a few drops of cum would leak out. Every time Dean's bed creaked—nearly constantly—Sam squeezed himself. Whenever Sam thought he was finally done and started to reach for the tissues—not that they'd be much help on his shirt—a shiver would jolt through him and his hand would be back on his dick.

It wasn't until after Dean came that Sam could finally calm down. The occasional swears turned into a steady litany, and then Dean _growled_, and Sam bit the inside of his cheek to keep from responding, to stay in reality enough to know that he couldn't roll over and watch. Whatever singular brain cell remained reminded him that he really, _really_ needed to get cleaned off before Dean noticed that he wasn't, and he grabbed a handful of tissues and did just that as Dean's breathing slowly returned to normal.

Sam was working on the spot on his shirt when Dean spoke.

"Toss me the tissues?"

Sam closed his eyes and took a deep, quiet breath. No sound had ever been as sexy as those four words, nothing as unbelievably erotic, and if it weren't for the fact that it was biologically impossible, Sam would have hardened again immediately.

"Ye-yeah, sure," he croaked out, tossing the box, amazed that it actually landed on Dean's bed, given how he was shaking and trying to look and not look at once.

It occurred to him that Dean was still touching himself, just with a layer of tissue separating his hand and cock, and Sam forced the thought away.

He tucked himself back into his boxers, kicked off his jeans, tossed his flannel in a corner, hoping Dean wouldn't see the stain, and finally managed to get beneath the covers. He turned the TV off, leaving the light for Dean, and closed his eyes.

_Tired_, he thought. _It's late and I'm tired and I know what Dean looks like and sounds like when he's jacking off and it's late and I'm tired and goodnight_.

A few minutes later Dean's bed creaked, the light in the bathroom switched on, the sounds of Dean's before-bed routine (Sam realized he'd forgotten to brush his teeth and didn't care), the bathroom light went off, and then the overhead. More creaking as Dean got into bed.

"Night, Sammy," he muttered, voice slurred with sleep.

Sam made some sort of affirmative noise, not trusting his voice.

12

Dean fell asleep almost immediately, his deep, even breathing giving him away. Sam, on the other hand, lay in bed for what felt like hours before drifting off, his last conscious thought: _never again_.

12


	2. Maybe Again

**A/N:** More Wincest-y goodness! All the same bits from last time: humor/fluff/romance/smexytimes. A bit of talk about but the tiiiniest bit. This isn't going to be an on-the-job story, at least as far as I can tell. There are smexytimes in this chapter as well, which you should pobably just assume is true for all chapters, but I'll keep warning just in case.

Mm, for those of you wondering about reciprocation, I'm afraid it's going not going to be completely clear for quite some time. If the show teases us with maybes and could haves and might bes, then I can't really feel too guilty about leaving you to puzzle out a shared look.

And, for those of you wondering about my progress, I watched _I Know What You Did Last Summer _and _Heaven and Hell _last night. Oh god. Oh. God.

**Chapter Two**

A week and a case and a half later, nothing had been said. Nothing had been done, either, except Sam became extremely careful about where and when he took care of business.

And his fantasies had changed drastically. But that was nobody's business but his own.

Currently, Sam was in the shower. They'd just finished killing a particularly nasty poltergeist, and he was covered with cuts and bruises from being thrown around the house. He and Dean had already disinfected everything, so mostly he was just hoping that the hot water would act like a massage and work out some of the knots in his back. Lower back especially, where he'd slammed into the corner of a table.

He was pissed, too.

Apparently poltergeists moved too quickly and he was too busy being tossed around like a ragdoll to even try to repel them using his powers. He felt very strongly that he should have been allowed to _try_. But it wasn't like Ruby would willingly round up some spare poltergeists to have him practice on, and real cases didn't find their way to him all that often, so there wasn't much he could do about it.

Dean had fared better, likely because he hadn't been standing still with his arm stretched out like an idiot and had instead been dodging.

The water ran cold before Sam had even started to relax, and he turned the shower off with a personal vengeance. He toweled off with what could have easily been called a rag and wrapped it around his waist before opening the door.

The TV was on. People were having sex—three people, a threesome, one girl and two guys. Dean was half sitting up, leaning against a pile of pillows, pants and boxers off, lazily stroking himself.

Sam short circuited.

_Two guys. Wrong gender combination._

_Dean's cock. Hard. In his hand._

_His hands._

_Dean's flush. Two spots of color high on his cheeks._

_Slow, content breaths. Must've just started._

_Had he been _waiting_?_

"Hey, Sammy," he said, turning to look at him. "How's your back?"

"How's your dick?" Sam shot back before he could stop himself.

Dean grinned. "Better than your back, that's for sure."

"Do you want to maybe _not_?" Sam asked, still by the door. He needed to get dressed, soon, before the towel started tenting, but he was frozen.

"No, I really do," Dean said assuredly. "I'm aching like a motherfucker and I came very close to losing an eye thanks to that fork. I need to relax."

"What about." There were other ways of relaxing, weren't there? "Drinking. Going to a bar. Sleeping. Taking a shower." He paused. "The water's cold, you should wait."

Dean's grin widened. "Doing some relaxing yourself?"

"No," Sam said irritably, keeping his eyes fixed on Dean's face. It might have been the most difficult thing he'd ever done. "Trying to help with the pain."

"This is way more fun," Dean replied, and Sam couldn't miss the long, slow, pointed stroke, or the way that a small bead of precum formed on the top of Dean's cock.

_Jesus fucking Christ._

"Could you at least go to the bathroom?" Sam asked, getting desperate. In his quest to not look at Dean, he glanced at the TV. The men were a-framing the girl, locked in a heated kiss as they fucked.

"No TV in the bathroom."

"They're not even—" Sam cut himself off. He didn't need to get into a debate about the type of porn his brother chose, especially after the construction-worker-pizza-delivery-boy. It was probably all that was on. "Fine. I'm going out."

"Not even girls?" Dean asked as Sam unzipped his bag and started rummaging through, looking for clean underwear. "Yeah, I know."

"All that's on?" Sam asked, working to keep his voice even.

"No."

He closed his eyes. "Okay, well. Fine. I'm going out."

"You shouldn't," Dean said, voice turning from teasing to serious. "Really. That poltergeist did a number on you. Hell, you need this more than I do."

_I certainly do now_.

"Dean." He finally found a fresh pair of boxers and tugged them on, immediately followed by a loose pair of cargo pants. The towel went on the floor; leaning over to pick it up from where he'd dropped it required a level of movement he wasn't capable of. "I'm not doing this. Once was—I'm going to the Laundromat."

"No you're not," Dean said. Commanded, really. Sam shivered, hopefully unnoticeable as he pulled on his last clean shirt. "You need to rest. Pull one out or don't, but get on your bed and don't move until you _can _move."

"Bad idea." Sam emptied the guns and knives from his bag and started piling in laundry, wincing every time he had to lean over. "I'll fossilize. I need to walk it off."

Dean groaned. Sam glanced at him; the noise seemed to be one of annoyance rather than pleasure, but that wouldn't last long.

"You sound responsible, except you're an idiot. I saw that bruise on your back; you don't walk that off, you lie down and stay that way. Bed rest for a week."

"You don't get to boss me around, Dean! You aren't Dad!" Sam burst out.

Dead silence.

Aside from moaning, slick friction, and sloppy kissing.

"I'm not staying here while you do—that," Sam said. "Turn it off or I'm going."

"I'm not Dad," Dean said after a few beats of silence.

Sam sighed. "I know."

_I know more than you could possibly understand._

Dean didn't reply, and Sam let it drop. He had vague memories of one of his socks ending up underneath his bed, and he fished it out and tossed it into his bag. Tried to toss it into his bag. Something in his lower back popped-grinded-cracked, and suddenly Dean was right, he wouldn't be walking this off.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

"Fine," Sam said, his standard reply. If they went into detail about their injuries after every job, they'd never talk about anything else. Instead, he dragged himself onto his bed, still hunched over, and carefully unfolded himself, clenching his teeth against the pain, one hand balled into a fist while he rearranged the pillows with the other. He ended up in the same position as Dean (again), and resolutely looked straight ahead.

The TV was straight ahead. The girl was now blowing one of the guys while the other rimmed him. Sam's cock twitched, starting to fill out.

"Since when do you watch gay porn?" He'd meant to say something joking or teasing to lighten the mood, to make Dean realize how impossible the situation was, and had failed. Miserably.

"It's not gay. Joe and Candy, the one Candy is giving an _especially_ good blowjob to, met online. He brought his friend Adam along for extra fun. I think it started with video sex but I didn't find it until Joe and Adam were already there. Adam was in the bathroom when I started watching and I didn't know he was there until…" Sam didn't look, but he assumed Dean made some sort of lewd gesture or expression.

"And you didn't change it?" Sam asked, wondering at exactly what point his filter had wandered off and what he'd need to do to get it back.

"Candy gives _exceptional_ blowjobs," Dean repeated.

"Right."

Sam closed his eyes, but still, all he could hear were sex noises. Plus he thought Dean might have sped up; no one onscreen was getting a handjob, and the sound wasn't exactly hard to place.

"I hate you," Sam stated.

"No you don't," Dean said with a grin Sam couldn't see.

_Can't argue there_.

"Fuck it," Sam muttered. He undid his pants, pulled them and his boxers off—apparently they'd progressed from still-dressed-if-you-ignore-that-our-cocks-are-out to half-naked—and threw them in the general vicinity of his bag. His cock bounced free, momentarily hitting his stomach before standing nearly straight up. He reached for it, then hesitated. "This can't keep happening."

"Uh huh," Dean breathed.

Sam's cock twitched. "I'm serious. Last time. And only because I can't move and you're an ass."

"You wish you were—could, see—." Dean moaned, then took a deep breath while Sam forced himself to keep his eyes on the television. "Something about my ass."

"Real snappy comeback there."

Dean didn't reply. Sam wasn't sure if it was because he couldn't or because he didn't want to and honestly didn't know which was better.

On the TV, Joe—no, wait, Adam—had gotten out a tube and squeezed an ample amount of lube onto his hand, first smearing most of it along Joe's crack—the camera had panned to give a perfect view—and using the rest on his fingers.

Sam let out a quiet moan. This was gay porn whether Dean admitted it or not, so, so, so very gay, the sort of thing Sam wouldn't usually let himself watch. But oh, he'd have to change his policy, because fingering, because obviously preparing, because erections, because he knew he'd been bisexual pretty much since he'd known he liked girls, had just kept it to himself, and then he had Jess and, in the back of his mind Dean, and then living on the road with Dean just Dean, and he moaned again, louder, at the thought of Dean doing that to him.

Or the other way around, but Sam absolutely _never_ let himself think about that. If somehow they ended up fucking—which they wouldn't—and he had to use the word fucking because they _really _wouldn't end up making love—there was no way Dean would bottom. It ruined the fantasy.

Except when it didn't.

But it didn't matter because Joe-or-Adam, Sam had lost the ability to think, was up to three fingers, and the other Joe-or-Adam was moaning unabashedly. Thrusting forward into Cherry-or-something-else's mouth, back onto Joe-or-Adam's fingers. Sam realized he was touching himself, didn't know when he had started, and didn't care. Lube would be nice, it hadn't occurred to him until now, but he was absolutely not going to start carrying around a bottle just in case he'd end up masturbating with his brother again.

If he had lube, he might get distracted, and if he was distracted and his fingers were slick they might end up a little more south than Dean should see.

Sam glanced at Dean. He wasn't even looking at him, of course he wasn't. His eyes were glued to the television, breathing erratic, stroking himself instead of fucking his hand.

Dean turned suddenly, so fast Sam could barely see it, locking eyes with him before he had a chance to look away. Sam's breath caught, his hips jerked up, and he let out a quiet whimper.

Then Joe-or-Adam moaned and Dean went back to the TV. So did Sam, not that he was seeing anything other than Dean's eyes. How dark they'd been. Unmistakably aroused. He didn't know what his expression was, whether Dean was looking at him with lust—directed at him, that was, rather than the general situation—or surprise or disgust or confusion, but it didn't matter. His eyes had been so wide and so dark and exactly like how Sam had imagined them. Boring into Sam as Dean looked up from between his legs, cock in his mouth; fluttering closed as Dean thrust into him, trying to keep them open but not able to; surprised, overwhelmed pleasure as Sam slowly sank into him.

Joe-or-Adam withdrew his fingers, slicked himself, and pushed into the other with one fluid thrust.

Dean groaned, loud enough to drown out the porno. Sam couldn't breathe, could barely think. Was he imagining a girl, fucking a girl like that? Or was it that it was two guys, because it was gay sex? Sam didn't dare look at him, kept his eyes on the TV, just stroking himself faster and wishing to god he had lube and a good vibrator. Fuck Dean (literally), fuck what he could see, fuck what he thought; Sam was empty, too empty, needed to be filled. Sooner rather than later.

Dean's bed started creaking and Sam gave up. He coated a finger as best he could in his own precum, there was a lot, he didn't know when that had happened either, and slid it inside himself, not giving himself a chance to think. He let out a choked moan, pushing down against himself. His other hand moved faster, covering as much of his cock as possible, and the second finger he added was noticeably burning and it was irrelevant, so completely, utterly irrelevant.

There were too many noises and Sam couldn't tell what was happening. A chorus of squeaking beds, low moans and groans and grunts, breathy gasping, the slap of skin against skin. He could pick out Dean's voice, always could. This was so much better than last time, and Sam hadn't thought anything could be. Dean was more vocal, _much_ more vocal, Sam had something in his ass, not much but something, and gay porn was on the screen. He might not have had the ability to open his eyes, but it didn't matter. All he saw was Dean.

Dean's fingers inside him instead of his own as he was bent over a table.

Dean's fingers inside him in the shower, hot shower with good water pressure, actually relaxing him and winding him up more at the same time.

Dean's fingers inside him in the back seat of the Impala in the dead of night, pulled over by the side of the road because they were too tired to keep driving.

_Dean_ inside him, anywhere, anyplace, it didn't matter, as long as it was Dean, always Dean.

Sam hit the bundle of nerves inside himself at the same time as he stroked along the seam beneath his head and swept himself off the edge. No idea what he was saying, doing, moving, just waves and waves of pleasure, crashing over him, drowning him, and through that Dean's voice, because Dean was actually _here_, physically, not a fantasy. Not inside him, not even next to him, but here.

Sam had stopped breathing, and the second he drew in a deep, ragged breath, he landed. Shakily, actually shakily, still shaking, still fluttering around his fingers. Three, apparently. He wasn't sure when that happened. Still twitching. But not still coming, not like last time; it had been too much, there just wasn't anything left. He was boneless, lying on his bed panting, and yes, Dean had been right. Relaxed. Whatever had happened to his back had loosened and he was still sore but no longer felt like he'd permanently broken himself.

Sore inside as well, to be honest; three was way too much without any sort of lubrication.

Had he said Dean's name? Anything about him? He had no idea, absolutely none, no memories other than flying-plummeting. Now he could barely hear Dean, his ears felt like they were filled with cotton, but he caught the sound of him coming, the same growl as last time, and Sam was already getting used to it, it was already part of his afterglow.

Dean got the tissues first this time, and Sam barely managed to catch them when they were thrown at him. He cleaned himself off which was nearly painful he was so sensitive, and attempted to put them back on the nightstand but instead knocked them to the floor.

The TV was still on and as Sam came back, he found it more and more crass, almost sacrilegious. Breaking the silence he needed. He reached for the nightstand again and didn't feel it, not that he was looking.

"Off."

The word was barely a word, breathy and not a sentence, but Dean understood and the television let out a hiss of static when he turned it off.

Silence was better.

Dean curled in his arms, or being curled in Dean's arms, would have been betterer. More better. Something like that.

"Gonna shower," Dean said eventually.

"Yeah, alright." Sam's heart was slamming in his ears. "I think I will take a nap, actually."

"Told you so."

Dean's bed creaked and the bathroom door closed as Sam crawled under the covers.

_Never again._

…_maybe once more._

_Never. Again._

14

14


	3. Four Agains

**A/N:** Gah sorry this took so long. Things have been a bit crazy here, and I've been sick, and I lost my muse. But I finally made an outline and everything is all ready to go!

There are some actual real live feels in this chapter. Not too many, and only from one of them (guess which!), but yes. Some feels. i.e. perceived (or real) one-sided Wincest. Like. Blatant Wincest. Super blatant. One-sided (maybe) but super duper blatant.

**Chapter Three: Four Agains**

It was not _never again_.

It was not _maybe once more_.

It was a habit, and it was Dean's fault.

i.

The third time started on a job.

Dean was interviewing the neighbors of a haunted house while Sam was across town talking to the great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson of the original owners of the house. Dean was under the impression that a ten generation gap rendered any conversation pointless but Sam insisted they'd found the key to jobs from less, and had thus been sequestered to a cab while Dean "took care of Baby," never mind the relative travel distances.

Sam spent a fortune on the cab for a three minute interview that consisted of nothing more than "I don't know"s and "Are you sure"s. By the time Sam finally got back to the motel and out of the cab, he was not feeling particularly generous towards Dean. The cab had smelled of patchouli and rotten eggs and he had no information whatsoever, which Dean was going to lord over his head for the rest of the job. Sam was considering leaving a carton of eggs in Dean's precious _Baby_ to see how he liked it, and possibly short-sheeting his bed just for the hell of it.

Any malicious thoughts—any thoughts at all, actually—vanished when Sam opened the door to their room.

Dean was stretched out on his bed, naked, cock very hard and in hand, eyes closed, blissed out.

Sam tried to say something but found his mouth was too dry, his mind completely short-circuited, and his own cock filling out so quickly it almost hurt. Anything even remotely like functioning was far beyond his reach.

"Thought you'd be out longer," Dean sighed. "Since your source was so reliable and all."

"I."

Dean opened his eyes, tried to smirk, and failed. He couldn't seem to get that look of pure self-indulgent enjoyment off his face.

"Or did he h-have absolutely no clue, li-like I said he would?" He cleared his throat. "Wouldn't, I mean."

"He—he, um." Sam tried to gather himself. Dean's cock was leaking.

Dean laughed breathlessly. "S-see something you like, Sa—_hmm_—Sammy?"

Sam let out a single, quite whimper. The number of times he'd spent thinking about what his name would sound like coming from Dean's mouth, falling off his lips as he…

"You're running o-out—out of…_mmmm_." Dean trailed off into a low moan, and Sam started leaking himself. There were several beats of silence before Dean remembered to finish his sentence. "Can't pass it off a-as surprise for…for much. _Nnngnm._ Longer."

"Pass what—"

Sam stopped. It was obvious. He'd been openly staring at Dean, at his cock—god he was thick, Sam twitched against the rapidly growing wet spot on the front of his boxers, his hole clenched around nothing—Dean's face, contorted in pleasure, his chest rising and falling faster and faster, less and less evenly, the thin sheen of sweat covering his skin, muscles, fucking unfairly gorgeous cheekbones.

And Sam was still staring.

"Then maybe you shouldn't be doing—stop, I mean, when I come—get, when I get home. To the motel, back to the motel. Maybe you could _move_, I dunno, bathroom, shower."

Sam wasn't thrilled with his ability to form a coherent sentence.

"_Y-you_ could leave," Dean stammered. His eyes, dark, pupils blown, fixed on Sam's crotch, on the obvious bulge. "Don't think you w—_whhh_—want to, though."

No, no he really didn't, god Dean's _cock_…

"Fine," Sam snapped suddenly, whirling around and stomping to the bathroom. "Heaven forbid _I_ inconvenience _you_, not like this is _your_ fault, or—"

The rest of his sentence was drowned out by a loud, choked, almost desperate groan from Dean.

Sam practically ran to the bathroom, slamming the door behind himself before he turned around and—and he didn't know what, exactly, only that he absolutely could not be around Dean at this particular moment. The stimulation of pulling down his boxers and jeans was almost enough, but he managed to last a good three strokes before he came with a shout, one Dean could probably hear, splattering the sink and setting a new speed record. He collapsed onto the toilet; the lid was down, thankfully, he hadn't had the presence of mind to check. He was still mostly dressed, just his boxers and pants pulled halfway down his ass, cock still out.

A few seconds later, Dean let out his trademark growl. Sam groaned in response, head falling back, knocking the extra towels stacked there onto the floor.

He was hard again.

Apparently he was sixteen.

It was pathetic.

Sam washed out the sink and took a very long shower.

By the time he emerged from the bathroom, Dean had ordered pizza and was sitting up, eating, fully clothed, watching one of his stupid slashers. Sam joined him hesitantly, commenting only on the unrealistic amount of blood pouring out of the current victim. Dean grinned and informed him, mouth full of half-chewed pizza, that was the reason that this particular sequel was the best in the franchise.

Nothing was said about the—incident.

Sam almost told him it was the last time.

Instead he sighed, the sound mercifully drowned out by someone in the movie screaming. He didn't know why Dean had suddenly stopped caring about privacy, and he refused to let himself speculate about any potential reasons, but he also wasn't stupid. This wasn't going to be the last time.

His stomach flipped at the thought of more.

No, his stomach churned unpleasantly at the still-gushing blood.

…no, it was definitely the first.

Sam grabbed a slice of pizza and focused on the movie.

Almost focused.

Close enough.

ii.

Sam woke up slowly. Barely. It didn't feel like waking up. He was kind of—floaty. Not quite real.

He could hear Dean jerking off in the other bed.

Skin on skin, slightly wet, labored breathing, quiet little moans and grunts, the slight squeaking of the bed.

Slightly wet.

Lube?

Dean didn't have any lube, not that Sam knew of, and he was fairly confident he'd know by now.

Sam was hard already, achingly so, rutting against the mattress.

He was still dreaming, that would make sense. Why he didn't feel awake. Why Dean suddenly, magically had lube. Why Dean had woken him up in the middle of the night by jacking off because even now, even with this—_thing_ they were doing, that was pushing it.

Sam sighed pleasantly, rocking his hips more firmly against the mattress, letting himself fall in time with Dean. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a wet dream, but it wasn't exactly surprising given what Dean had been putting him through. It was more than when they got off together—apart, Sam reminded himself yet again, they were apart—it was that now he couldn't look at Dean, think of Dean, smell a whiff of Dean's scent without coming undone.

Maybe that wasn't Dean's fault, but it was so much easier to blame him.

He vaguely wondered if he was going to wake Dean up, how much Dean would laugh at him, before deciding he didn't care.

Instead, Sam settled himself perfectly between the mattress and his thigh, losing himself in the feel of thin cotton boxers sliding so easily against him and the firmer weight of the sheets beneath him. In the sounds Dean was making, because they just kept getting better and better, and maybe if Sam listened closely enough and wanted it badly enough Dean might say his name, because it was a dream, and Sam had slightly more than no control over them.

Suddenly Dean laughed, breathy and throaty and amused and something else.

That didn't seem like dreaming.

"What," Sam said, not asking, just demanding. It was his dream, dammit, a really fucking good one, so why exactly was Dean laughing at him?

"I was wondering if I'd wake you up."

Sam froze. "What."

"I tri-_igh_-ed to be quiet, but…"

"No." Sam's hips had started moving again against his permission. The goddamned _sounds_ Dean was making. _Christ_.

"No what, Sammy?"

Sam couldn't help speeding up. It should be illegal for Dean to say his name like that, not if he didn't mean it, and of course he didn't. They were just wanking together. Again. And Dean had been trying to keep quiet, maybe, Sam didn't know anymore. But any emotions? No. Absolutely not. All on his end. Dean would never—

"C'mon, no what?"

Dean seemed a little more focused now, a little farther from the edge, but all that meant was that this was going to last longer, the humiliation drawn out, and his emotions getting more and more fucked up because apparently that was easier when it was the middle of the night.

"What is wrong with you?" Sam snapped, nearly yelling, still rutting into the mattress because he couldn't fucking stop. "What is this?"

"God, Sam, you don't need get your panties in a twist." Dean did sound a little surprised though, and he'd stopped stroking himself. "I thought you were asleep."

"How is that any better?" Sam asked desperately because he _still_ couldn't stop, and it was starting to build.

"It's not like it's the first time."

Sam stopped. He couldn't help that, either.

"What."

Dean laughed, lighthearted again, and he was touching himself again, too. "Are you kidding? All those nights sharing a motel room because Dad didn't want to leave us alone? We were teens, Sammy, what'd you expect?"

Sam's mind was reeling. It made sense, as much as anything in their lives did. He had slept through it, he hadn't known, it didn't mean anything. Sam had kept to the shower, but he'd also gotten out and gone to college before he'd gotten too desperate.

"Fine."

Dean let out a deep breath and yes, it was a sex noise, but it also sounded like relief. Or maybe Sam was losing his mind, it was so hard to tell.

"Just finish, it's fi-_ihh, oh_-ne," Dean sighed. "I won't be l-long."

Sam had started again anyway, would have without permission (although the thought of having permission did horrible, wonderful things to him). And he was close, it would be over in a minute, and then he could get back to sleep and when he woke up maybe he could pretend it was a dream. His eyes closed, his focus once again narrowing to Dean and the friction against the bed. He thought, maybe, that he was learning Dean well enough to be able to synchronize their orgasms, but as soon as the thought crossed his mind, Sam was gone. He groaned, low and loud, straining against the bed, his only thought that he should have waited because _god_ this was good and he'd only _thought_ it.

It was a lot less good and a lot less satisfying when Dean came a few moments later and Sam realized just how close they'd been.

Even less good when he realized that the twin bed wasn't anywhere near big enough for him to avoid the wet spot.

Much less good when Dean tossed the tissues at him and they hit the back of his head before dropping to the floor. Dean's accompanying laugh didn't help.

"Night, Sam."

Sam grunted irritably, pulling out his boxers to try to avoid the already drying tackiness, contorting to avoid the not drying at all spot on the bed.

"Whatever."

iii.

Sam was exhausted and Dean had been in his element, practically crowing, and Sam wanted to punch him. They'd hit nearly every bar in town trying to find a succubus of all things, and needless to say, that was not Sam's forte. He'd consumed maybe half a beer over the course of seven-or-eight-or-fifty bars and five-or-six-or-fifty hours whereas Dean was steadily knocking them down and of course never getting even tipsy from it. Dean had been hit on by every girl in every bar, like always, while Sam had gotten a few sympathetic smiles and nothing more. Dean had looked cool and sexy and just a little bit dangerous in that one leather jacket he saved for special occasions and the extra hair gel, while Sam had looked like a dork as always.

Currently, though, Dean was pissed. Due to the succubus eating her way through the town, he couldn't pick anyone up, thus leaving him high and dry. He hadn't said anything yet—which was actually more concerning than if he had, because it meant an inevitable outburst of sexual frustration later on—but Sam knew the signs well enough. He was tense, fingers tapping a beat on the steering wheel that was neither a beat nor related to the music, which was turned up loud even for Dean. The speedometer was nearly in the triple digits. His jaw was clenched, he was flushed, and his eyes fixed straight ahead.

Also, when Sam glanced down definitely by accident, Dean was tenting enough that Sam became concerned about the integrity of his zipper.

The likelihood of a mutual masturbation session was very high.

He really wished he had a problem with that.

Only it had been a full sixteen days since the not-a-wet-dream incident, and jerking off in the shower was getting less and less satisfying to the point where it almost wasn't worth it.

Sam supposed it was possible he looked just as strung out as Dean did, but chose to ignore that fact.

Dean pulled into the motel parking lot with a screech and the all-too-common pervasive smell of burning rubber. He still parked perfectly, of course; nothing was worth damage to his Baby, not even sex, or lack thereof.

Car sex briefly flashed through Sam's mind and he pushed it back.

"Hurry up," Dean snapped, out of the car and halfway to their room before Sam even registered they'd come to a stop. He scrambled out after him, barely getting in the door before Dean slammed it shut.

"No more succubus jobs," Dean said, each word with its own special emphasis. He shed his jacket immediately, followed by his flannel, thankfully _not_ followed by his shirt. "Jesus Christ, the population is, what, two thousand something? Maybe three thousand? Roughly half of those are women, maybe seventy-five percent of those are—"

"Seventy-five?" Sam interrupted, gaping. "Jail bait, Dean."

Dean tried to grin, only it was more of a grimace. A sexually frustrated Dean was not a Dean who could smile. "Cougars, man. Don't knock it 'til you've tried it. They've got experience. But still, that leaves, uh. Somewhere under a thousand fuckable ladies, and _one_ of them is a succubus. One in 1500. I'll take those odds."

"Yeah, well, you didn't," Sam replied, kicking off his shoes. "The last thing I need is to pull you out of bed while a woman is trying to eat you. No thanks."

Dean groaned in annoyance. Sexual annoyance. Sam repressed a shiver.

"I'd kill for someone to eat me."

"Not gonna happen." Sam was rather impressed with his ability to say that coherently. "Not until we kill the damn thing."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, collapsing onto his bed and undoing his fly. Sam looked away. "Don't you dare tell me not to, I can't fucking help it."

"N-no, it's fine." Fine, really? That was the word Sam wanted? "I mean. If it's un—unavoidable." Dean's cock was out and god it was gorgeous. Every time Sam saw it he found something else to fixate on. Currently, the blood vessel on the underside, reddish-purple and engorged, and Sam would have given anything to lick along it, tongue flat and slowly stiffening and lengthening to a point, hearing what noises Dean would make, what noises _he_ would make, because he sure as hell couldn't do that quietly.

Not that Dean was being particularly quiet. He was moaning unabashedly, stroking himself so fast his hand was nearly a blur, precum leaking down his shaft. He wasn't going to last long at all, and Sam thought Dean was distracted enough that he might be able to get away with watching, just watching, and then disappearing into the bathroom to wash the smell of smoke and alcohol and sawdust off himself before he went to sleep.

Definitely not to pull one out himself.

"Staring."

The word was almost intelligible between the panting and moaning, but Sam caught it. He was too in tune with Dean's voice not to.

"Am not."

Dean groaned, speeding up. "Are too."

"Well it's kinda funny," Sam said, talking without thinking, no idea what he was going to say until the words were out of his mouth. "How desperate you are."

"Pushing the." Dean's hand stilled, he shivered, his entire body, and for a second Sam thought he was going to come, but not yet. He whimpered instead, a high, needy sound, and went back to stroking himself. "Limit. 'Gain."

"What limit?"

"H-how long you ca-can stare b-before—_christfuckuhgnn_." Dean was aching up off the bed, half stroking, half fucking his hand, and Sam knew what he was talking about now and had absolutely no control over it.

"It's funny."

Dean didn't respond, he was too far gone. Sam watched in fascination as he passed the point of no return, how his body, unfortunately still clothed, moved, how he touched himself (not admitting he was filing it away for potential future use), his expressions, fuck, Sam had missed those before but they were amazing, mesmerizing, as hypnotizing as any succubus.

And then he was _gone_, over the edge, eyes squeezed shut, mouth fallen open, that motherfucking _growl_ that nearly sent Sam over the edge himself. Dean's throat vibrated with it. He was shooting in spurts, coming so hard it looked nearly painful, pulsing, lengthening, hardening, twitching, getting cum on his shirt and then hand, dribbling down, and Sam needed to _lick_, to _taste_, and he couldn't, and he thought it was possible was going to keel over and die with need.

Dean collapsed, still holding his softening cock, eyes closed but not so tightly, mouth open but slack instead of strained, entirely drained and completely checked out.

Sam got up as quietly as he could and had almost reached the bathroom when Dean spoke.

"You watched."

Sam didn't reply, just went into the bathroom and firmly closed the door, locking it behind himself.

iv.

"I can't do this anymore."

Sam looked up from John's book at Dean, who had tossed his computer to the side and had his hands over his eyes.

"What happened?"

"Nothing, it's fine, I have notes, I've just been looking at this same goddamned page of the same goddamned symbols for hours and I can't do it anymore." He let out a deep sigh. "Do you know how many Tuwana symbols there are? I close my eyes and I see them. I can't escape."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Suck it up."

"I've been. For hours. I need a break."

Warning bells started ringing in the back of Sam's mind. "Fine. I'm still looking through Dad's journal. Do what you need to do."

There were a few minutes of silence, likely while Dean decompressed. Then the sound of a zip being undone.

"Dean…"

"You said to do what I need to do," Dean replied innocently.

"I didn't mean—" Sam cut himself off. This was pointless. "Fine. I'm still looking through Dad's journal. Do what you need to do."

"That's all I do."

Sam tried to ignore him. He tried very hard. The desk he was at didn't face Dean but it didn't _not_ face him either, and he couldn't get him out of his peripheral vision. Sam held the journal up much closer to his face than he needed to, he shifted his chair to the side, he closed his eyes for a moment to collect himself, but Dean was always there, enjoying a nice, slow, relaxing _break_.

Sam was not enjoying himself.

"Dean."

"Mm, yeah?"

"Could you maybe do that somewhere else?" Sam asked, wondering how many times he'd said that in the past almost two months.

…no, not wondering. This would be the sixth time they'd done this together, Sam knew that very specifically. He didn't know how many times he'd said that exact phrase, but odds were it was pretty high.

Six times.

Fifty-four days.

Which he did not know off the top of his head.

"Doin' what I need to do, little bro."

"Don't call me that," Sam snapped, much angrier than he needed to.

Dean laughed throatily. "Sore spot?"

"No."

Sam went back to reading, still trying to ignore Dean. Except that he didn't really care that Dean was his brother, because he was more than a brother, always had been, and he knew Dean felt the same, not that he'd say it. After everything they'd been through, they had to be. Growing up the way they did. Saving each other's lives. Dying in front of each other—repeatedly, even. Of course they were more than brothers. Dean was _Dean_.

Sam was a lot less sure that Dean himself wouldn't care. For all his bad boy, tough guy talk, he was actually pretty straight and narrow. Straight, too, but that wasn't the current question. Sam was relatively sure that the idea of fucking his own brother—_making-love-being-in-love-being-with_—would repulse him. Jerking off in a shared room was one thing, Sam could sort of see how Dean wouldn't think that was a big deal, but doing anything more, _being_ anything more…

Dean sighed quietly.

"Dean."

Dean laughed again, sounding significantly less put together than last time. "Love how you keep saying my name."

Sam flushed. "Could you at least be quiet?"

"I'm tryin', Sammy, it's just so _hard_…"

Sam rolled his eyes in spite of himself. "Then maybe hurry it up?"

"Can't stay quiet and go fast," Dean replied, letting out another breathy moan.

"Fine. Be loud. _Do what you need to do_. Just. I need to focus." Sam opened the journal again, not remembering closing it in the first place.

Dean groaned immediately, the bed springs started squeaking, and the sound of his hand on his cock intensified. Sam closed his eyes. It was that or stare, and while Dean hadn't called him out on the last time, he had given him a few amused, eyebrow-wiggling looks since then.

"Dean…"

"_F-fuck_. What."

Sam froze. "Do you _like_ it when I say you name?"

Dean let out a series of short pants that Sam thought was meant to be another laugh. "All guys do."

Sam let his brain turn off. He closed the journal again, dropped it on the desk, undid his pants and took out his cock. It wasn't fair, he hated Dean, there was an unpleasant sucking, black hole type feeling lurking around his stomach that had something-nothing to do with what never could be, and got himself off as quickly as possible. For once Dean came first, and Sam lost it at his growl. He had to wait for Dean to be done with the tissues—motels aways kept them on the bedside table between the twins, it was practically law—cleaned himself up, put himself away, and went back to reading.

_Dean gets turned on by hearing me say his name_.

Maybe—and only maybe—but regardless, it wasn't relevant to the job.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean pick up his laptop and go back to looking through thousands of symbols for the one they needed. Sam took a deep breath. If Dean could work, so could he.

Sort of.


	4. Different Again

**A/N: **This chapter ran long. Long and solo. There were supposed to be more scenes except then it decided that the one needed to take up the entire thing. I haven't reworked the timeline yet because it's quarter of 2am, but I'll get on that tomorrow, and there should be a new number.

Going along with almost 2am...

We're not edited. At all. I'm sorry. I'm excited and want to publish and tired and can't see straight. I'll hop back on tomorrow and fix up the icky bits.

Even so, enjoy?

**Chapter Four: Different Again**

Sam wasn't sure when the distance between South Dakota and North Dakota had become longer than New York to San Francisco, but clearly it had. He was positive they'd been driving for at least five days, but each check of the clock showed it was only ten or twenty minutes later.

"Dean."

"Yeah, Sam?"

Sam forced his eyes open and looked at his brother. "Can we stop for the night? Get a motel? I'm so tired and I can't stand being in this car another night."

Dean shot him an amused look. "Don't you dare insult my Baby."

"I'll do more than insult her if we can't—" He yawned. "Can't sleep in a real bed."

"We're only two hours away from Zahl," Dean replied. "C'mon, Sammy. Be a man."

"Men sleep in real beds," Sam muttered. "With soft mattress and down comforters and all the pillows they want."

"Sometimes I really just can't believe we're related." But he still looked amused, and continued, "I saw a sign for a turn off with a Radisson coming up. You're paying."

Sam yawned again. "Fine. Sounds perfect." He jolted. "Wait, really? That's not even a piece of shit motel."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I know. That's why you're paying."

—

Ten minutes later had them at the reception desk, duffles slung over their shoulders, Sam considerably more awake. The hotel wasn't luxurious by any definition, but it really wasn't a piece of shit motel, and he couldn't stop looking around. He felt like a kid in a candy shop. He didn't check into the conversation until he heard Dean repeat the same words they'd both spoken a thousand times:

"No, no we're just brothers. A double, please."

It had only been four days since the last time they'd done—since the last time, and Sam's thoughts regarding their brotherly status hadn't left his head. Of course Dean wasn't going to tell some random receptionist that they were more than brothers, that they were special brothers, but it still stung.

Just brothers.

"—bean convention."

Sam focused again. Dean looked far too upset for the words to have actually been bean convention. Besides, bean conventions didn't exist.

"Excuse me?" Dean asked lowly, voice taking on the don't-fuck-with-me tone Sam enjoyed a little too much.

The woman pursed her lips. "If you wanted a choice of room, you should have booked your stay months ago, like everyone else."

"Because of a bean convention?" Dean said incredulously. "Months. In advance. Because of beans."

Her eyes narrowed. "Yes, beans. And if you like insulting them too much, there won't be any rooms free."

Sam couldn't suppress a giggle at a middle-aged woman with a thick Midwestern accent echoing Dean's words, however accidentally. Both of them glared at him.

"Fine," Dean snapped. "Sam, pay the nice lady."

Sam pulled out his wallet and handed her a credit card without thinking. He still didn't know what was wrong with the room, but despite perking up he was still tired.

"Robert Byrne?"

Sam blinked. "Uh, yeah. That's me."

She looked at the card, then back up at him. "Your brother calls you Sam, then? Mr. Robert Byrne?"

"It's my middle name," Sam replied automatically. He'd had this conversation too many times to be phased, and it was that look of ease and normality that let him get away with it. The receptionist sighed heavily, ran the card, and gave it back, along with two room keys.

"You're in room three-twelve," she said. "The elevators are located down the hall, take them up to the third floor and turn left. If you have any problems, please don't hesitate to call. Thank you for choosing the Radisson and have a lovely stay."

"Yeah, you too," Dean replied irritably, swiping the keycard off the desk and stalking towards the elevators. "C'mon, Robert Sam. I'm tired."

—

Sam trailed after him, waiting until they were out of hearing range before grabbing his arm.

"What was that about?"

He had expected a tirade with a lot of yelling and swears, but instead Dean grinned, all anger falling away.

"No doubles available."

Sam frowned as Dean shook his arm free and pressed the button for the elevator. "Wait, so—"

"Sharing a bed."

Sam stared at him, really hoping he looked horrified instead of aroused. "We're—what?"

"It has a king-sized bed, you'll live," Dean replied, guiding Sam into the elevator. "It's no big deal."

"Then why—I don't—wait." Sam closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "Okay. One king-sized bed. Fine. We can make a pillow barrier, like when we were kids. But why wouldn't you just tell her that we're a couple? You didn't have to make a scene."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "A pillow barrier, really?"

"Or I'll take the couch!" Sam exclaimed. "Whatever! Why didn't you lie?"

"You're more concerned about sharing a bed than you are about lying that we're brothers?" Dean asked, once again having to usher Sam out of the elevator before the doors closed on him. "If you really want to pay two hundred for a couch instead of a perfectly maintained classic car, the apex and pinnacle of all classic cars, be my guest. And the last names on our credit cards are different."

"Oh." Sam was still feeling indignant, and he was losing credibility by the second. "I guess that's a lot for a couch. Why can't we have a pillow barrier?"

"Because I'm not thirteen and you're not nine?" Dean tried. "We're adult men with our fluffy mattresses and down comforters and if you want all the pillows you could want, I'd think you'd want to sleep on them. Besides," he added as he let them into the room and switched the light on, "you'd kick them all over me in the middle of the night and I am not dealing with that shit again."

Sam ignored him, mostly because he was right.

The room was tiny, much smaller than the doubles they usually shared, and was almost entirely taken up by the bed. There was a small bathroom, a small bedside table on each side of the bed, and just enough room between the foot of the bed and the wall to squeeze by.

No couch.

Or extra pillows.

"Fine," Sam said eventually. "Just don't—."

Dean was going through his duffle and looked up innocently. "Don't what, Sammy?"

Sam sighed. "Never mind."

—

The bed was huge, and space really wasn't a problem. There was more room between them than when they each had their own bed, separated just by a small nightstand. Sam had curled himself up on the very edge of his side, facing away from Dean, and he could barely feel when Dean moved around.

Not that there was any chance he'd be able to sleep, not with Dean in the same bed, not with a four day gap, not with his goddamned erection pressing into the goddamned mattress that did move every time goddamned Dean so much as breathed.

They'd been in bed with the lights off for maybe ten minutes when Dean spoke.

"Hey Sam."

He considered not answering, pretending he was asleep. But Dean could always tell.

"Yeah, Dean."

"Why don't you go take a shower."

Sam groaned. "No. Why don't you."

"Because I was driving for ten hours and I don't want to get out of bed."

"It wasn't ten. Eight, tops."

"Sa-am," Dean whined, and it wasn't an attractive noise, except how it was.

"What was that about not being kids again?" Sam shot back.

"Yeah, I know, that's my point, I'm not a kid, I have needs, so get out."

Sam couldn't help himself. Because he wasn't going to leave, he'd won his bed and was keeping it, and if Dean didn't leave.

Sam couldn't help himself.

"Since when do you care about privacy?"

There was a short pause.

"Kinda thought you'd kill me."

Sam couldn't read Dean's tone, and it wasn't fair.

"Look. I'm going to sleep. Don't keep me up." He was barely breathing, heart pounding in his chest, cock aching, and it looked like it actually might possibly potentially happen.

For a moment Dean didn't answer, didn't move at all, and then the bed shifted slightly, Sam shivered, the sound of cloth being moved, and Dean sighed quietly.

fuckfuckohfuck

Sam squeezed his eyes closed and willed his body still. He wasn't going to rut against the mattress until he came, he wasn't going to touch himself, he wasn't going to roll over and watch, he wasn't going to jump across the bed and fuck Dean senseless. He was going to stay still and quiet and not look or listen and fall asleep.

Which lasted all of seven seconds—exactly, Sam counted, before he rolled onto his back, kicked off his own boxers, and started jerking off, too.

In the same bed as Dean.

Sam was already close, it was embarrassing, but he held out. He had to. If he came within seconds of touching himself Dean would think something, probably, and he wasn't interested in Dean thinking anything. He was interested in getting off and that was it.

Dean was trying to be quiet, which frankly baffled Sam. Had he not noticed that Sam had joined him? Was he pretending they weren't together, in the same room, in the same bed? Was it a force of habit from when they were kids? Did he not want this?

Because out of all the possible explanations, Sam was quite sure that Dean was at least neutral towards if not actively seeking out mutual masturbation sessions.

They had already talked so much, though. So much more than they usually did. And even if they hadn't, it wasn't like Sam could ask why he was being quiet. Ask him to be louder because it turned him on.

No.

Not exactly.

Sam found himself moving in time with Dean. It was stupid how much better than was, how a few seconds difference could turn it from good to ball-tingling amazing. And despite being quiet, Dean seemed to have picked up the pace, going faster and harder than usual.

It was dizzying, knowing what was normal for Dean.

It pushed him closer, and he couldn't help the finger that slipped down and rubbed gently against his hole. Nor could he help the gasp, or bucking up against it, and he could have sworn he heard Dean choke back a moan.

…maybe Dean was keeping quiet because he was trying to hold back, because he found it too arousing, because being in bed with—

Sam cut himself off. He was being stupid.

Dean did speed up though, there was no denying that, and Sam followed suit. Pleasure streaked through him, starting at his hole, shooting up his cock, swirling in his balls, and he was close already, they couldn't have been doing this for long, but time was slipping and they were moving so fast and Dean was panting and so was he and it was so easy to imagine it was Dean's hand on him instead of his own.

Dean's finger sliding into him.

Sam moaned, loudly, and Dean echoed him a split second later. The sounds overlapped, and before they faded completely Sam brushed his prostate and somehow Dean knew because at the same moment he growled, that fucking growl, and they came together, and Sam had never come harder, better, starting so high and flying so far.

They came down together too, Dean's growl and Sam's cry turning to ragged panting and then fast breathing and finally something resembling normality at the same time.

Sam didn't know what to say. What to do.

That was shared. Dean had to know it was shared. That it was more than what they'd been doing. He couldn't brush it off. Not that he would talk about it, he was Dean after all, but it had to mean something.

"Tissues?"

Something in Sam cracked.

Tissues.

They were talking about tissues.

Of course.

"Sammy, you with me? There aren't any tissues over here. Do you have any?"

He reached over blindly, think that yes, yes he was with Dean but no, of course not, not at all.

"Yeah, sorry. Here." He grabbed a few for himself and tossed the box at Dean, making quick work of the mess. Used tissues went on the floor, he'd find the trashcan in the morning, boxers pulled back up, blankets pulled up under his chin, and he was never going to sleep again, what was the point.

He did, almost immediately.

Turned out that particular sort of jerking off with his brother was especially exhausting.


	5. Way Past Again

**A/N: **Fluff! Also Wincest!

It's still unclear about how one-sided the feels are, but definite mutual Wincest.

Probably definite.

**Chapter Five: Way Past Again**

Sam woke up curled around warmth. Familiar warmth, comforting warmth, a warmth that smelled like home and like right. He wasn't awake enough to connect that with his actions or where he was, and so sighing happily and pulling said warmth further into his arms seemed nothing but natural.

"Hmm?"

Sam froze.

Shit.

"Dean?" His voice came out as a high squeak.

"Mmfph."

Definitely Dean.

Jesus Christ, this was not—not what was supposed to happen. Even if it felt natural and right and exactly where he belonged.

Sam _definitely_ hadn't fallen asleep like this.

How was he supposed to get himself out of this, exactly?

"Dean, I—"

Dean groaned. "Is it time to get up already?"

Sam stopped breathing. That was his reaction?

_That?_

"Um. Not sure what time it is."

Dean grumbled, shifted in Sam's arms, and checked his watch. "Christ, almost noon. The funeral is in an hour and a half, and we've still got two hours to go. Jesus." He extracted himself from Sam's arms and nearly tripped on his way to the bathroom.

Sam rolled onto his back in shock.

That was—.

They weren't—.

Dean hadn't—.

"Sam!" Dean yelled from the bathroom. "Are you getting ready? I'll leave you here, it's your fault we stopped in the first place."

"Yeah," Sam called back, still not able to move. "Getting dressed right now."

"You better be."

—

They didn't sleep for three days straight. It was a family of ghosts, and of course they all kept different schedules. That was the thing about ghosts of people who hadn't died three hundred years ago: the teenagers were up all night, their parents held a normal schedule, and any grandparents got going no later than four in the morning. Keeping a constant vigil was exhausting and nearly impossible but they managed, they always did, and they finally managed to piss off the ghosts enough to wake them up all at once, and from then it was a simple house cleansing.

But god they were exhausted, both of them.

And irritable, Sam was extremely irritable. Nothing had changed between him and Dean, of course not, but it _had_ to because they'd gotten off in the same bed and woke up spooning.

_Spooning_.

_And nothing had changed._

So when they finally got to the motel and check in desk, the first thing Sam said was,

"Double. We need a double room. Double. Two beds."

The receptionist looked at him, then Dean, and then back to Sam. "Lover's quarrel?"

"No!" Sam realized he was practically yelling, and took a deep breath. "Brothers. He's a jerk."

"Bitch," Dean supplied dutifully.

Sam wasn't sure what the receptionist's expression meant, but they got their room—a double, two beds—without further questioning. There _were_ two beds, two extraordinarily uncomfortable beds that jabbed at every knot in Sam's body, but at least there were two.

For the split second between his head hitting the pillow and falling asleep, he thought:

_Bed's lonely._

—

They woke up late enough—early evening—that they decided to stay in town for another night. Finding a new job would take up the rest of daylight, and they were still tired and cranky from being up so long.

Dinner was delivered pizza, and the pie Dean had somehow found time to buy during the job. They didn't talk much, staring blankly at a movie Sam kept forgetting the plot of, mindlessly eating until they felt something approaching normal.

When the movie ended, Sam took a very long, very refreshing shower. Maybe not _very_ refreshing, but he no longer felt like one giant muscle cramp, and he once again smelled like standard motel soap rather than dust and unpleasant herbs. He wasn't looking forward to sleeping in that bed again, but it was just one more night. He'd live.

In retrospect, he shouldn't have been surprised at all to come out of the bathroom and find Dean jerking off.

Sam let his eyes sweep over his brother's body. He was stunning, truly. Sam saw him shirtless and pantless enough when they changed, but it was different, so very different. And Dean was completely naked now, all long, hard lines, well-defined muscles, beautiful and sensual. Everything Sam wasn't, everything Sam didn't even care that he wasn't because it wasn't like Dean was going to look at him like that anyway.

"The shower's free," Sam said pointedly, pulling on a clean shirt and boxers.

"I am never getting out of bed."

Sam snorted. "Are you kidding? These beds are like sleeping on nails."

Dean cracked an eye open. "Mine's not."

Sam marveled for a moment that they could have a conversation while Dean was touching himself. Sliding his hand up and down, and there was definitely lube, Sam hadn't dreamed that. Cock twitching in his stilled hand. A few drops of precum leaking down.

Sam needed.

"Then we're switching," he said, voice alarmingly normal. "Beds. I'm not sleeping on that thing again if there's a better option three feet away."

Dean opened his other eye and stared at him. "Like hell we are."

"No, hell is sleeping on that bed," Sam said firmly. "Move."

"No," Dean said. "I'm pretty well settled, thanks."

Sam's eyes fluttered closed for a moment before flying open. "Stop touching yourself and get into my bed." He immediately blushed and Dean burst into laughter. "That's not—not what I meant. C'mon Dean, this isn't funny."

"No, it's fucking hilarious. But I'm still not getting up. I'm older, I get the better bed."

"Dean, I swear to god."

"You swear what?" Dean asked. He locked eyes with Sam for a moment before staring at his crotch. "It doesn't look like there's much you can do until you take care of that."

Sam looked down. He was tenting. Not a little bit, but at an almost pornographic right angle.

"That's not my point."

"If you do it right, you'll be too distracted to care," Dean said. His eyes closed and he let out a quiet sigh. "Stop talking, you're driving away the busty Asian beauties."

Ice flooded through Sam. It was stupid. Of course Dean didn't fantasize about him. He was straight, he liked busty Asian beauties and blonde college chicks, and he absolutely did not like his brother.

"Shove off," Sam snapped, and there must have been something in his voice because Dean looked at him again. He didn't stop, but his attention was focused on Sam. "Literally. I'm going to shove you and your busty Asian beauties off the bed if you don't move."

Dean groaned in frustration, almost certainly frustration, and moved over to the side of the bed. It was a double, and there was a not-quite-Sam-sized space left for him.

"There. You are officially invited into my bed. Now seriously, stop talking."

Sam didn't know what to do with himself.

He did, but it was not an acceptable thing to do.

"Thank you," Sam replied irritably, getting in and under the blankets. He faced away from Dean of course, but it wasn't like he hadn't memorized every cell in his body, or like he couldn't hear or feel Dean, who was being considerably more vocal and free with his movements now that they weren't talking.

Sam needed to come. Badly. But he couldn't—

Fuck it. It wasn't the first time, was way past the first time. Yes, they were closer than before, a _lot_ closer, but he was under the blankets and Dean on top. He was clothed and Dean was naked. Dean already knew he was hard. There wasn't really any harm in it.

Sam suppressed a bitter laugh as he slid a hand into his boxers.

_Busty Asian beauties_.

No harm.

Right.

Sam kept his eyes closed. Dean didn't comment, at least not that Sam could tell. It was possible he got louder, but he could just be getting closer. Sam found himself keeping time with Dean again; apparently that was an ingrained part of his masturbatory habits.

Wonderful.

He almost asked Dean for lube, but it didn't matter. The bed shook, Dean growled, Sam let out a scream muffled by his pillow, and that was that.

Except it wasn't, because he could feel Dean's warmth through the blankets. Dean's hip bumped his as he got the tissues. Their fingers brushed when he handed the box over.

And then Dean was under the covers.

"Dude."

Dean sighed heavily, and his voice was fuzzy with afterglow and almost sleep. "What now? Your side not comfortable enough?"

"You're naked," Sam said.

"You decided to sleep in my bed. My bed, my rules."

_And what if I wake up spooning you again? _Sam thought almost hysterically.

"Fine. Whatever."

"Y'r bein' a real bitch tonight," Dean said through a yawn.

The words twisted angrily. "Sorry to disappoint."

"Shut up."

"You're not exactly pleasant yourself," Sam snapped.

"Fuckin' exhausted." Dean yawned again. "For the love of all that is holy, _stop talking_."

Sam relaxed a little at that. He knew what sleep-short Dean sounded like, and it was exactly this. There weren't any under- or overtones to dissect, just exhaustion. To be honest, the fact that he shared his bed at all showed a marked increase in maturity.

"Yeah, well," Sam said, not sure why he felt the need to acknowledge the statement. Something about making sure Dean didn't feel guilty. Which was idiotic. "Sleep well, then."

"Y'too."

That seemed better, and Sam drifted off with only a few stray thoughts of busty Asian beauties.

—

Dean was already awake and back with donuts by the time Sam woke up. He had no idea what position they'd woken in and Dean didn't mention it. Instead he tossed the paper at Sam, a blurb circled about a town with a higher-than-average rate of babies being born with tails and horns. If there was an average babies born with tails and horns rate.

Sam had a donut and resolved not to think about what had happened, instead agreeing to take the job with no complaints. Dean gave him a strange look at that, but still didn't say anything, and they left within the hour.

—

Fifteen days.

Four states.

Three jobs.

And nothing had happened.

Sam was going insane.

He analyzed every word, obsessed over ever movement, jumped whenever Dean said his name. It was stupid and ridiculous and no doubt Dean had noticed something, but it was Dean and he didn't say anything. Of course he didn't say anything. He was Dean. He never would.

It was in that mindset that Sam decided it was a good time for a walk. He told Dean where he was going (the park they'd passed a mile or so back), how long he planned to be gone (no more than an hour, two tops), and brought his phone. It was part of being a hunter, and Sam didn't think twice about it.

Until he got back and found Dean jerking off on his bed—on _Sam's_ bed—and it occurred to him that he gave Dean a very specific period of time in which he'd be uninterrupted and yet, here he was, naked, touching himself, biting his lip, all on Sam's bed.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Dean gasped quietly. "A-Apparently taking longer than a-ant. Anticipated."

"In my bed," Sam stated.

"R. Repaying the. _Ohh_. The favor."

Sam closed his eyes. This wasn't fair. It was so beyond fair it wasn't funny.

"That's not what I—my bed was uncomfortable, yours is—you were going on about how comfortable it was when we got here," Sam stammered. "For a motel."

"Mhm," Dean sighed. "T's great."

"Then why aren't you—." Sam gave up. There wasn't a point. No doubt the answer was something to do with busty Asian beauties.

He may have still been upset about that.

Unreasonably so.

Very, very unreasonably.

"Fine," Sam said instead. "I'm taking your bed. It's late. I'm tired."

Dean groaned. Annoyance, not pleasure. But he did tighten his grip on himself and thrust up into his hand, which Sam wasn't watching intently at all.

"I d-don't want you on mine. My bed."

"Well too bad," Sam said rather indignantly, kicking off his shoes. "You gave up that right when you started jerking off in my bed."

"N-no, Sa-_ahh_-am."

Sam choked back some sort of noise, he didn't know what. He sat on the foot of Dean's bed and yanked off his socks.

"Mm_mmm_missing the point."

Sam sighed, taking off his jeans. "What point, Dean?"

Dean let out a strangled moan. That was right, he liked hearing his name. His busty Asian beauties couldn't do that.

Sam needed to get over himself.

"I—I'm in y-your bed."

"Yes Dean I understand that!" Sam exclaimed, possibly overreacting. He couldn't tell anymore. It went along with going insane. He tugged his jeans off. "You're jerking off in my bed, in half a second I'll be in yours, it's fucked up, can we not talk about it?"

Jesus Christ, had he actually said that? Sam had no idea what was acceptable to say, but that seemed like crossing a line.

Dean sighed again, half sigh, half moan. "D-don't ge-et in my be-_ehhh_-d."

"You have a-absolutely no right to say that." Dean had whined, actually _whined_ in pleasure, and Sam had tripped over his words.

"And y-you didn't seem to ha-ave a problem sh—_shit_—sharing before." Dean swiped his thumb over his slit, mixing precum with lube.

"I—I'm sorry?" Sam stammered. "Wh—you want me to—you _want_ me to share?"

Dean uncurled his fingers from the blankets and patted the bed next to himself.

Sam was lost. Completely and utterly lost.

"No."

"C'mon Sammy," Dean said, voice breathy and broken and also slow and teasing and with that tone Sam could never say no to. "Just get over here. We—w-we've, _ohh_. Sh-shared before."

"I—no." Sam honestly had no idea why he was protesting other than it seemed like the thing to do. "Why?"

Dean groaned. Definitely pleasure. His free hand went to his balls and Sam nearly moaned himself. "B-because. Said so."

It was pathetic, but that was enough. More than enough. Sam stood on wooden legs, propelled himself to the other bed, and lay down next to Dean. Above the covers, they both were. Dean made some sort of affirmative noise, and Sam took off his shirt and boxers. He hadn't been naked for these sessions before, but Dean also hadn't asked for him.

Isn't that what had happened?

Sam wasn't sure.

But it seemed like it.

Dean didn't look at him, though. Didn't do anything other than speed up, making delicious wet noises from the lube, squeezing and fondling his balls, generally making Sam feel like he was about to die.

"Lube?" Sam asked, voice nearly blank.

Dean whimpered as he let go of himself, rummaged through the nightstand's drawer, and tossed the bottle at Sam. "Enjoy."

"Th-thanks."

Was that right, thanking him?

Sam didn't care. At all. He slicked his hand and it was delicious, he should have gotten his own lube before this. It was all too easy to keep up pace with Dean, who was moving much faster than would have been comfortable dry. Dean let out a sharp breath when Sam fell into his rhythm, but it could have been coincidence.

He was too sensitive for this. He knew he thought that every time, but honestly, he wasn't going to last. No last-minute holding out, nothing to bring him down, just an embarrassingly quick orgasm. While jerking off naked next to his brother on the same bed.

Yes, fantastic.

Sam trailed fingers along his sac and shivered before settling at his perineum and rubbing. He would have gone lower, would have _happily_, but Dean hadn't seen him fingering himself, or maybe he had, but he wasn't sure, and he didn't want to ruin the moment, or whatever this was. He was already so close anyway, it didn't really matter.

For the first time, Dean had to catch up to Sam, to speed his movements. Sam was floating, unbelieving. It wasn't just him. It was, Dean wasn't in love with him, but he wasn't the only one getting off on this. Obviously, he'd nearly begged Sam to share a bed with him, but he was doing it _with_ Sam. Not nearby, but _with_.

Dean did know. They were sharing it, and Dean knew.

"_Fuck_," Sam whispered, jerking into his hand, right on the edge. It was so good it almost hurt and he couldn't stop.

Dean groaned loudly in response.

"_D—_"

All that stopped Sam from saying his name was his orgasm. It ripped through him, his body turned to light and exiting through his cock. Dean was growling and Sam moaning and the sound of them together was perfect, heaven. Everything was shaking and blinding light and pulsing and so so so good and Dean was coming too, Sam could look, but he couldn't, he had no control over his movements, and he was too busy bucking into his hand and arching off the bed and being pure light.

"Fuck," Dean breathed an indeterminable amount of time later.

"Yeah," Sam echoed, not sounding anymore put together than Dean.

Dean moved and Sam nearly had a heart attack when he thought he was leaving, but no. Dean offered him the box off tissues, he grabbed a few, and so did Dean.

Again, Sam had no idea how much time passed before Dean yawned.

"Well I'm going to sleep."

Sam looked at him for the first time. He was still flushed. He was also completely relaxed, and Sam didn't know if he'd ever seen him like this.

"Mm," he said, not sure how to reply.

Dean yawned again, pulled the blankets out from beneath himself, and lay down. They crossed over his chest beneath his arms, the way he always slept. Except usually he wore a shirt, usually he and Sam hadn't just done—_that_, usually Sam wasn't quite as captivated by the strip of bare chest and his collarbones and neck and…

"It's still my bed," Sam said, also getting under the covers. He thought he might break if Dean left, but he needed to know.

"'M tired," Dean yawned. "Don't want to move."

"I'm not moving either," Sam cautioned, yanking the blankets up to his chin.

There was a brief struggle before there was enough fabric between them that it wasn't cutting into Dean's underarm or leaving Sam's shoulder cold.

"Figured."

"Right."

Sam fell asleep facing away from Dean again. They were both naked, he'd forgotten to fix that, and accidental spooning wouldn't be—

It would be, but.

The effort had been made not to. Anything beyond that was out of Sam's control.


	6. Together Again

**A/N:** Okay I'm on my computer now so things should be fixed shortly. Hopefully.

I asked my dad who's a web developer and he said "That sounds an awful lot like a _glitch_" so at least it wasn't my fault xD

**Chapter Six: Together Again**

Sam nearly managed to stay in the library after they closed without getting caught, but a particularly thorough librarian found him half-hiding in a private reading room with almost all of the lights out, and he was all but forcibly removed. Neither was he allowed to check out his books, which he found unfair and prejudiced against people who love books and also incredibly irritating because he wasn't done researching hauntings with multiple ghosts planning together.

Of course Dean was jerking off when Sam got back to the motel. He didn't bother acknowledging it at this point; it had only been two days since the please-join-me-while-naked-and-let's-share-a-bed-together adventure (they hadn't woken up spooning, which Sam still wasn't sure if he was thankful for or not; their legs had been sort of entwined but they were facing away and it seemed more like they were both trying to spread out and had gotten in each other's way rather than anything intentional), and given the escalation of that, it seemed only natural that there would be smaller breaks between events.

If natural was the right word, which Sam didn't know.

Dean was in his own bed this time, which Sam didn't want to admit he was disappointed by but was anyway. Regardless, Dean was still naked, and still touching himself, although not with his usual fervor. Long, slow strokes, tightening on upstrokes and loosening on down (just like Sam; like brother like brother, apparently), a drop of precum welling at his tip but not falling.

"I didn't find out much," Sam said, dropping his bag on a nearby chair. "And they wouldn't let me stay after hours."

"Shame," Dean replied, letting go of himself and grabbing the lube from the bedside table. He drizzled a fair amount onto his cock, which frankly fascinated Sam. The way it slid down, coated him, made him glisten, and another squeeze onto his hand before flipping the cap closed and getting back to business.

Much faster than before, and with a lot more intent.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked, choking out the words. He was still in research mode and thought he knew but he had to be wrong.

"Enjoying myself," Dean replied, thrusting up into his hand. "Obviously."

Sam licked his lips and started to harden. "Were you waiting for me?"

Dean waggled his eyebrows. "I dunno, do you want me to have been waiting for you?"

"N-no, I—" Sam ran a hand through his hair. He couldn't figure out how to finish his sentence, so he started a new one. "What the fuck, Dean."

"Do we have to talk about this a-_mm_-again?" Dean's eyes closed for a moment and when he opened them, they were significantly less focused.

"Again?" Sam echoed. "We haven't—_you_ haven't—this—"

"Gonna wait until your jeans cut off your circulation, or are you gonna strip down and join me?" Dean interrupted.

Sam decided there were other times for conversation. Besides, they hadn't talked, not really. Just like this, half-formed sentences, interrupted by moans of pleasure, neither of them actually saying anything. Dean was right, there was no need to repeat that when he could just as easily—more easily, in fact—be jacking off.

Sam stripped completely and, a little nervously, headed towards Dean's bed. He already had a hand on his cock, was already hard, but he wasn't sure exactly what Dean meant by _join me_ and he could have meant a lot of things, and maybe Sam should have asked.

Instead, Dean just looked at him like he was an idiot, and Sam joined him on the bed. Dean seemed satisfied and once again closed his eyes, focusing purely on himself.

_On busty Asian beauties_.

_Jesus fucking Christ let it go._

Dean had left the lube in the middle of the bed, and Sam quickly slicked himself before falling into Dean's rhythm. He sighed softly, feeling the bed move in time with them, Dean's quiet breathing getting less quiet, how they moved in synchronicity without trying.

Sam opened his legs a little wider without thinking, and his knee bumped Dean's. He tried to apologize, but instead Dean let out a shaky moan. Sam jerked in surprise, both up into his hand and pressing harder against Dean, and Dean moaned again, louder, and Sam echoed him, again falling in love with the sound of them together.

He left his knee where it was.

He swore he could feel Dean's heartbeat through his knee. It was stupid, but pervasive. But he could anticipate Dean's moves better, and they were still separate, but they were a lot more together than before.

Sam's orgasm was fast and almost violent. His chest tightened, he couldn't breathe or make a sound, just everything went taut and he was still touching Dean, more than just their knees, their lower thighs as well, and Sam could faintly hear Dean's growl, of course he could, but his ears were filled with cotton and he was _thrumming_, and Dean was coming too and he was also straining and they were pushed closer together, pressed from knee to hip. Sam gasped sharply and he could breathe, and the noise he made was almost obscene. Part moan, part scream, and Dean reacted amazingly, beautifully, letting out another growl, a _growl_, something primal and made of sex and Sam nearly kissed him or something worse but he didn't.

He came down instead. With a huge gasp, it wasn't like falling but crashing, the rush of being with Dean, touching him, coming with him, a weight slamming him back into the bed. He jumped away from Dean, who was apparently feeling none of this, and sat up, still panting, trying to get his bearings.

Dean didn't love him. This wasn't news. He loved him as a brother and that was it. Probably a special brother, Sam didn't think he could be wrong about that, but not like anything else.

And that was fine, that wasn't the problem.

The problem was that it _hadn't_ been a problem, and then Dean had starting this goddamned jerking off together thing, and now it was.

It was a really fucking big problem.

"Sam?"

The weight smashed through him again, nearly making him physically reel back.

"Yeah?"

"Gonna get the tissues, or did you break yourself?"

Sam laughed. He hadn't thought he would, Dean had surprised it out of him, but it was completely genuine. Because it was Dean, and that's what Dean did.

"Yeah, sorry. Guess I checked out for a moment there."

"One always does after the good ones," Dean said sagely. "Now get me the tissues before it dries and crusts and I have to take a shower."

Sam grabbed the box, took some for himself, and tossed it at Dean. He cleaned himself, put the box back, and climbed under the covers before remembering that he was naked or that he was in Dean's bed. He wasn't sure how to bring it up, but was quite sure that he needed to.

"Mind if I stay?" Sam was frankly amazed that he managed to sound casual. His voice didn't even crack.

Dean yanked up the covers and flopped beneath them, letting out a deep, satisfied sigh.

"Whatever you want, dude. I'm not gonna be awake for it."

Sam decided that was reasonable, roughly speaking. He didn't think he'd be able to sleep with the weight still crushing him, like a gravel boulder that hadn't been rubbed smooth and kept chafing him, but he was out within minutes.

He could feel Dean's warmth radiating out to him.

It was very soothing.

—

The next day was another death, more interviews, and even more time in the library. Sam missed dinner, was again kicked out at closing time (despite having actively been hiding; they must have known he'd be back), and ended up at a greasy diner where he could have sworn he ate his body weight in breakfast food and was still hungry. Another burger later and he walked back to the motel, silently thanking god-or-whoever for his metabolism. If either he or Dean had what was considered average, they'd be in Heart Attack City.

Not that they'd live long enough to get there, but.

Sam had prepared himself to walk in on Dean jerking off, but no. He was on his computer, apparently deep in thought. He could have been researching, but was just as likely.

"Any luck?" Dean asked.

"Some. I have notes. You?"

"Yeah, actually. A church burned down in 1873, trapping and killing the youth bible group in the basement." Dean closed the computer and ran a hand over his eyes. "Five out of the thirteen families still have relatives in town. We can talk to them tomorrow."

"Kids would explain the messiness of the killings," Sam mused. "Not rage-induced sloppiness after all, just naïve inexperience. Any ideas about what connects the victims to the kids?"

"No, and no luck with who burned down the church or why. The paper thinks it might've been someone lighting a prayer candle and knocking something over."

"Hmm." Sam sat on the edge of his bed, considering. "If it was a mistake, then why are they so angry? And ghosts couldn't have done half of what we've seen. There has to be something more going on here."

Dean sighed, putting his laptop on the chair next to his bed. "I dunno, man, but I've been waiting fucking hours for you to get back. What took so long?"

"Same stuff as you. Research. And I skipped dinner and had to stop for food on the way back." Sam looked at him suspiciously. "Why? What were you waiting for?"

"Skinemax is blocked," he said, shrugging out of his flannel. "So's Busty Asian Beauties and everywhere else I tried."

Sam stared at him. "You were waiting for me so we could get off together?"

Sam couldn't see Dean's expression or really even discern his tone of voice while he was taking off his shirt.

"Better than nothing."

The weight was more like a knife this time, stabbing and twisting angrily and stupidly.

"Dean. What the fuck."

"You really need to stop saying that, it makes you sound like an idiot." Dean's shirt was off and he had started on his fly. "Every time, really?"

"You never answer me!" Sam said indignantly. "What am I supposed to think?"

"That I'd rather jerk off to something than nothing?" Dean replied. He seemed to have forgotten he needed to take his shoes off before his jeans, and Sam could have _sworn_ he saw a quick blush before Dean leaned over to fix the problem.

Additionally, the knife was gone, replaced with hope and, more reasonably, confusion.

_To me?_ Sam thought, not able to voice the question. He couldn't think of any reasonable sort of clarification he could get away with asking, but he had to say something. _Had_ to.

"Your bed again?"

Dean's shoes thudded to the floor, and his jeans soon followed. "Or yours, whatever."

Sam closed his eyes for a minute. He was lightheaded, almost felt like he was about to pass out.

_What is this what's happening what is going on Dean goddammit talk to me._

"It's about time you come over here," he said, nearly choking when he realized what he'd said. "Be over here, I mean."

"Yeah, all right." Dean toed off his socks, stripped off his boxers—hard already, god, why did he have to be so gorgeous and so perfect, made for touching and licking and kissing and biting—and flopped onto Sam's bed. "You gonna get undressed, or are you too busy staring?"

Sam flushed and muttered, "Sorry," before starting to strip.

"No worries. Good to know I'm still appreciated."

Sam glanced at Dean, who did indeed look to be preening. "Still?"

Dean shrugged. "Haven't fucked anyone in a while. Your nothing-after-midnight rule is gettin' real old."

Sam suddenly found it very difficult to untie his shoe. "You haven't gotten any since then? It's been months."

"Of course I have," Dean said, half angrily and half you're-an-idiot. "Just. Not in a while. Not that I couldn't. Just." He waved vaguely.

Sam's shoe suddenly came free and sailed across the room, slamming into the wall before thudding to the floor. "You, um." He swallowed. "Since when, exactly?"

Dean sighed irritably. "Dude, I don't know. I don't exactly count the days, I'm not fuckin' desperate. Can we get on with this?"

"Yeah, sure," Sam said automatically, making quick work of the rest of his clothes before lying back next to Dean.

It had been eighty days since they had first started getting off together.

Eighty.

Days.

Had Dean really not gotten laid in _eighty days_?

Sam knew that _just_ didn't mean since they started. And Sam had imposed the not-after-midnight rule months before they stared. And Dean hadn't said months. He'd said _just_.

…only, _just_ sounded a lot like _eighty days_.

Dean was prodding him with something, and Sam nearly jumped out of his skin before realizing it was the lube. He took a deep, steadying breath, applied liberally, and wrapped a hand around himself. He kept his legs stretched out this time, no bent knees, to minimize any potential contact. Not that he didn't love it, because _god_ he did, but it wasn't constructive. The opposite, in fact, as even the memory had him thrusting up into his hand, which of course (when did it become of course?) Dean started doing as well.

Dean shifted slightly, and his foot nudged Sam's. He froze, except his hand didn't, which was probably good because Dean would notice. He was already losing focus and getting lost in himself, and he wasn't able to come up with an explanation other than the one he wanted. He was sure there was one, Dean didn't purposefully come into contact with him, he didn't _want_ to be touching him, except he also didn't move his foot.

Sam wanted to experiment, wanted to try moving closer or moving his foot or anything, but it was heart-stoppingly impossible. Better to leave it how it was, with Dean's toes and the ball of his foot resting on the top arch of his own than risk having it stop completely.

His arousal pooled from there, though, rather than his groin. Sharp, sometimes physically painful with need, sparks shot up from his foot to his cock before spinning out and spiraling through the rest of him. He thought he had felt dizzy before, that he might faint, but now the world was a spinning plate on a pole and Sam was on the plate, nearly falling off but not, reeling, cantering around, completely out of control.

He was still, except for his hand and his hips thrusting up.

Except everything was swirling around him and when he could think, he wondered what would happen if he and Dean _were_ to have sex, because if just this whirled and twisted, fuck, he didn't think he'd survive.

The swearing wasn't just in Sam's head; Dean was cursing continually, jerking erratically, and it was either a miracle or very, very intentional that they still were in physical contact. Sam was grunting and not moving quite as sharply but still at the exact same speed as Dean and Dean was at the exact same speed as he was, and that was very important because it was both, they were sharing, and _fuck_.

"Gonna—" Sam gasped out the word before he remembered not to, but judging by Dean's appreciative moan, it wasn't a problem, and that more than anything sent him over the edge.

It wasn't like coming anymore, not like anything Sam had before this. Flying was too pedestrian but it was closer.

Maybe it was like crashing into Dean and, for those moments, never having to leave.

Sam thought Dean came at the same moment he did, but he was so far gone it was impossible to tell. What he did know was that when Dean clenched and arched up, his foot slammed down on the other side of Sam's, and Sam cried out as another wave of pleasure pulsed through him, stronger than the first, and Dean might've made a sound other than his trademark growl but he definitely _was_ growling, so it was impossible to say.

Coming down wasn't the catastrophe it had been the night before. There was no weight dropped onto him or gravel ground into his skin. He floated down, focusing almost entirely on Dean's foot draped over his, only a little on still gently stroking his softening cock. Dean, Dean was here, Dean was with him, Dean shared this with him, Dean.

_Dean._

Sam reached for the tissues before Dean could move to look for them, and they stayed touching through cleaning up.

Then Dean got under the covers even though it was Sam's bed and he hadn't asked.

Sam did as well, feeling awkward and not knowing where to put himself. Dean was on his back but facing away, and Sam nearly initiated the same sort of accidental-on-purpose-not-moving foot contact, but he didn't. He rolled onto his side facing away from Dean to get the light, and then it seemed natural to stay like that, so he did.

He was nearly asleep, floating happily in afterglow, only slightly tugged down by reality, when Dean spoke.

"G'night, Sammy."

Sam smiled to himself. "Night, Dean."

Again, he was almost asleep when Dean whispered something so quietly Sam was positive he wasn't meant to hear, maybe even that Dean thought he was already asleep, but he wasn't and he did.

"Bitch."

Sam couldn't reply, not without keeping up the façade of being asleep, but his smile widened and reality faded a little farther away. Even if Dean didn't love him, he loved him. The rest almost didn't matter.

_Jerk._


	7. A Week Again

**A/N:** Five days later, five mutual masturbation incidents with maybe-accidental touching later, five nights spent in the same bed, and Sam had come to several conclusions and made several revelations.

Slight spoiler for _No Rest For the Wicked_. I wouldn't worry, I was super vague and it could mean anything, but I'd be remiss if I didn't mention it.

Also, there are going to be nine chapters, not eight. I can't remember if I mentioned the number eight in the first place but if I did, it's nine now.

**Chapter Seven: A Week Again**

Five days later, five mutual masturbation incidents with maybe-accidental touching later, five nights spent in the same bed, and Sam had come to several conclusions and made several revelations.

They had been sharing a bed for a week. A full week. After kind-of-but-not-actually-at-all sex.

He wasn't brave enough and Dean didn't care enough or something to get a single bed, so they kept sharing a double.

He no longer wished it would continue or had vague notions about whether it would or not. It definitely would. Probably. And if Dean decided to stop, Sam would make sure they didn't. Probably.

The point was, Sam needed it.

And, for reasons he didn't conclude or have any revelations about, Dean was okay with it. Instigated it, even. Every time.

Except tonight, when Dean was out late at a bar and Sam was stupidly jealous and was taking it out on Dean by jerking off when he wasn't there. Which made sense. It wasn't like they were _exclusive_, they were _brothers_ who happened to _masturbate_—as in _solo_—together sometimes, and Dean had every right to go out and get laid.

Sam closed his eyes, then opened them again so he'd stop picturing whatever bar skank Dean was currently fucking into next week.

Only jerking off wasn't going too well because apparently he could no longer maintain an erection when Dean wasn't in the room. Sam let out a groan, covering his face with his hands, and gave up. He was stripping himself raw and it was all kinds of fucked up, but it just wasn't worth fighting anymore. He'd deal with it later. Right now he to needed sleep, possibly forever.

Instead the door opened and Dean sauntered in.

"Oh, you waited!" Dean said brightly, apparently taking Sam's flaccid cock as a sign that nothing had happened yet.

"I did," he said carefully. "What took so long?"

"The most recent victim had a twin," Dean said, and Sam immediately felt ridiculous. He'd been working the job, while Sam had laid around feeling sorry for himself. Brilliant. "Who happened to be at the bar. Celebrating, in fact, the demise of his brother."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Are we thinking it's not supernatural, then? Just sibling rivalry gone wrong?"

"No, definitely supernatural," Dean said, starting to strip. Something in Sam bloomed warmly, replacing any thoughts of busty beauties, Asian or otherwise. "He was bragging about how lucky he was that he wasn't strong enough to decapitate someone with a single blow. He _laughed_, said it was the only time he was grateful for being out of shape. Didn't even mention the other victims."

Sam wasn't sure he'd ever seen Dean look so disgusted by a loved one's not-so-loving one. It was kind of adorable, combined with just an undershirt, boxers, and socks.

"Right. You okay?"

Dean gave Sam a look he didn't understand at all. "They were brothers."

Sam's heart started beating strangely. "Yeah, so? Blood doesn't exactly run thicker than water, we know that."

Dean grimaced. "_Brothers_, man. I just don't get it."

Sam flushed. He couldn't help it. "Well, I promise I won't chop off your head."

Dean flashed him a smile, leaning against the wall to pull off his socks. "Always knew I could trust you."

"That's just the sort of stand up guy I am," Sam replied soberly. "Bring the lube with you?"

Dean rummaged through his bag and pulled it out, tossing it onto Sam's bed before taking off his shirt and boxers. Sam still wasn't used to it, didn't think he ever would be. He'd been trying to think of non-cliché ways to describe Dean's body and hadn't really been able to come up with anything. He was just. Perfect. Tan and muscled and scarred (though not as much as before hell), the pinkish handprint that stood out in relief on his left shoulder and the anti-possession tattoo over his heart. His hair was a tiny bit longer than he generally let it get and the gel was starting to lose hold, half standing up and half falling over. Cock, perfect cock, around half-mast but quickly growing—_from looking at me, from the prospect of jerking off next to me_.

But it wasn't any of that, not exactly.

It was _Dean_. Every inch of him, every scar, dimple, freckle; it was all _Dean_, and Sam had every perfect imperfection memorized. He had before this—hell, he'd bandaged up most of those scars himself—but it was different now. His feelings hadn't changed, the _Dean-ness_ hadn't changed, but it had. It was more. More complete.

There were still secrets, but this felt a lot like the last important one.

Dean cocked a grin, sitting on the foot of the bed, not yet coming to lie next to Sam. "Enjoying the view?"

Sam hadn't even pretended to not be looking. To be honest, he'd forgotten he needed to pretend.

He was still staring. He was flushed. Almost completely hard. His breath was starting to shorten.

He was enjoying the view.

A little too much, because apparently he wasn't capable of higher thought.

"Yeah," Sam said.

Dean gave him another strange look, just for a second, before falling back into the easy smirk. "Of course you are. I'm a _god_."

Sam was having trouble arguing with that at this particular moment.

"Lube?" he asked instead, belatedly realizing that didn't exactly help him save face.

Dean raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Right next to your hand, dude."

Sam flushed, picking it up and keeping his eyes on what he was doing.

Because covering his dick and hand in lubrication was very difficult and required his full concentration.

"Thanks," Sam muttered, tossing the bottle in Dean's general direction and lying back down. He was almost too nervous to start touching himself; he was too lost in his world of _Dean-ness_, and he'd already fucked up and said something stupid. He hadn't been this apprehensive since the first time Dean had pulled out his cock.

But hesitating would be suspicious, so he wrapped a hand around himself and let out a quiet, breathy sigh, immediately thrusting up, and since his eyes were closed (when had that happened?) it could have just as easily been Dean's hand, only Dean's were rougher and a bit smaller and his fingers were proportionally shorter than Sam's and Sam had spent way too much time watching and categorizing every detail of Dean's hands and right now that was the smartest thing he had ever done in his entire life.

He heard the squirt of the lube as Dean slicked himself, and then the bed settled as he lay down next to Sam, and of course. _Dean_ noises, Sam had forgotten Dean _noises_. How could he forget when—

Dean's thigh bumped his, much higher and more firmly than any time before. Sam sucked in a sharp breath and moved faster. Dean moved closer, almost their entire sides pressing together, and Sam let out a high whine, pushing against him, and it was sort of hard to touch himself now because his arm was trapped between himself and Dean, but it wasn't like he was complaining. This was perfect, as perfect as it could be, as it would get, and it was much easier to pretend it was Dean, everything was Dean, the _air _was Dean: with every breath Sam took he breathed in more of Dean's scent, leather and whiskey and testosterone and musk and _sex_.

Sam wasn't stroking himself, he was thrusting up into his hand, so he didn't stop moving when Dean wrapped a hand around his, not exactly. He froze, but his hips were still raised, so when he dropped them he moaned, the friction too much, _Dean_ too much, and he didn't come only because he was too shocked.

"Dean."

"Yeah, Sam."

"What are you doing?"

Dean tightened his grip and gave him a long, slow stroke. Fucking _amazing_. He wasn't even touching him, not technically, Sam's hand was in the way, but god it didn't matter.

"I dunno, _Sa-am_," Dean said, drawing out his name. "What do you _think_ I'm doing?" He stroked him again, tighter, crushing Sam's fingers, except it was something approaching heaven and Sam didn't give a fuck. Dean could do anything or say anything as long as this didn't stop.

An explanation would be nice, though.

"I th-think you've l-lost—_shit_—lost your mi-_iihhn_-nd," Sam breathed, trying to talk through the next stroke and barely managing.

"Really?" Dean asked lightly, too lightly, this meant nothing to him, but he moved Sam's thumb to swipe over his head and Sam groaned, and it had to stop but it couldn't but it had to but it _couldn't_ but it. _Had. To._ Before Sam really did go crazy. "You've never thought about this? Me touching you, getting you off? You're fuckin' horrible at pretending you aren't watching me, and it's no secret we get off to each other. What's the harm?"

Hadn't Dean asked him that a while ago? Way back, when he'd pushed one step farther? It was always Dean who pushed and almost never Dean who talked and when he did, it was in this sort of non-talking and there was a lot of harm, a hell of a lot, but Sam couldn't say that.

"'T's—fine," Sam managed. "F-fine."

_No it's not it's not okay it's not fine Dean no this is too far we're too far, this can't_—

Dean's had flew off his, and Sam jerked his eyes open.

"Wh-what's wrong?" he panted. "Why'd you stop?"

"You told me—you just said…?" Dean trailed off, frowning, genuinely confused, while Sam's insides shriveled and died. Had he said that out loud? All of it? Was this going to stop, was Dean going to leave, did Dean _know_?

"I-it's not," Sam breathed. "Too far. It's fine. I didn't m-mean—" Mean what, exactly? "It's fine."

Dean's frown deepened. "Sammy, fine's not—"

Sam grabbed Dean's hand and put it on his dick, keeping eye contact the entire time, even through the body-wide shiver that had him rubbing himself against Dean's hand and nearly passing out in opposite directions. He had no idea what to say because Dean always knew when he was lying and it wasn't fine, but it was so much better than not and Sam needed, he needed so badly, needed more, _everything_, and he wasn't going to get that, only apparently he could have Dean giving him a handjob, and all the logic and self-preservation in the world couldn't talk him out of this.

Later, maybe. The next day. While falling asleep that night. In bed, with Dean. Sharing a bed with Dean.

_Unless he stops_.

No, he wasn't going to stop, he was going farther, not stopping. Sam just needed to convince him that he wanted this without sounding desperate or like he _wanted_ it.

Or like it meant nothing to him.

A happy medium.

_Happy._

_Right._

"Dean," Sam said lowly, letting enough show, just enough, that Dean's eyes flicked down and he licked his lips. "I'm not exactly thinking with my upstairs head, and that's the head with vocabulary. Fine's the best I got."

Dean's eyes darkened, and Sam twitched in his hand. His lips spread into a slow, predatory grin, and Sam twitched again. Dean wasn't moving his hand, Sam was still holding his wrist, but Dean was looking at him the way he'd look at a stripper holding a slice of pie, and nothing else mattered.

_Almost nothing._

"I can give you a lot more than fine," Dean said, and it was more of a growl, and Sam's eyes closed and he arched up into Dean's hand, an unidentifiable noise of his own streaking out past his lips. "And I can make sure you don't have _any_ vocabulary left."

Sam made some sort of strangled affirmative, rubbing himself against Dean's hand, and why wouldn't he _move_, and if he kept talking like that Sam was going to come anyway, and it'd be a lost less embarrassing if Dean actually _did_ something, rather than getting off by humping his hand. That he was holding in place.

Sam couldn't ask. That was too much. This was too much. That would be much too much.

Instead, he carefully uncurled his fingers from Dean's wrist, scared and embarrassed, and that did it.

Dean gripped him again, properly, squeezing tightly before another slow stroke, and somehow it hadn't really sunk in before that _Dean's hand was on his cock_. Sam shuddered, pushing up helplessly, and apparently his hand was on Dean's hip because he was digging his fingers in, hard, and Dean started moving in earnest, picking up speed and varying pressure and lingering in just the right places and how did he _know_ this, had he been watching Sam too, had he seen his habits, or were they so in sync that he'd know automatically, or was it a lucky guess, he was just really _fucking_ good at this, was that just from jerking himself or had he given handjobs before, was he not straight after all, did this mean—

_Shut the fuck up and enjoy yourself._

Yes, good advice, because Dean was teasing the bundle of nerves just beneath his crown and Sam was definitely going to die.

He registered wet pressed against his thigh and genuinely had no idea what it was until he realized it was rubbing against him, against his thigh, and Dean was fucking _rubbing himself off against Sam's thigh_, and then everything was gone.

Sam groaned, every muscle stiffening, every nerve ending on fire, every cell screaming, coming in thick, hot spurts over Dean's hand—_Dean's hand_—and it wasn't stopping, didn't seem like it was ever going to stop, and then, oh jesus _fuck_, Dean _growled_, and the sound flooded through Sam, the same thick, hot spurts against his thigh, Dean's face pressed against his shoulder and the sound was _literally_ reverberating _through_ him, and Sam still didn't stop because this had to last forever.

Sam could have sworn he heard his name buried in Dean's growl, and everything faded away, first to clouds and then to nothing.

—

When Sam came back, Dean was sitting next to him, cleaning him off with a warm, wet washcloth. First swiping gently over his cock, then along his stomach before dipping down to his thigh, to where Dean had come on him, and Sam had a stupid, ridiculous impulse to tell him to leave it, that it was never going to happen again and he had to have proof, before the last piece of reality snapped back into place.

Dean looked up at him and offered an embarrassed sort of smile.

"Didn't mean to do that."

Sam stared at him blankly. Hadn't Dean been the one to touch him? Wasn't this his idea?

"What?"

Dean flushed slightly, and Sam gaped. Dean never blushed.

"This," he said, pressing down with the washcloth before balling it up and tossing it in the general direction of the bathroom. "Like that."

"I—oh." Apparently Sam hadn't quite checked back into reality; his mind was white fuzz, his heart pounding, everything on the brink of a cliff, the edge of a knife, the head of a pin. Sam couldn't tell if he was about to burst into joy or collapse into tears because Dean didn't and wouldn't ever feel the same and Sam never should have let this happen, let _any _of this happen, but he had, and that made it his fault, not Dean's, because Dean didn't know, and Dean would _never_ know.

He couldn't.

That was.

"It's fine," Sam said, and Dean laughed throatily. Sam looked at him questioningly.

"Guess that is all you can say," Dean supplied, and then Sam remembered and now he was the one blushing, Dean had recovered completely.

He wasn't getting beneath the blankets, though.

Were they not doing that, then?

"Guess so." Sam stretched, trying to bring his body into some sort of balance, the kind where he wasn't completely relaxed in afterglow and surrounded by darkness at the same time. "Think I need to sleep."

Dean laughed again, more normally. "I really did a number on you, huh? I have to say, that was the best reaction I've ever gotten from just a handjob."

_Just_, Sam thought unhappily before talking without thinking.

"You've given others, then? Handjobs?"

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "What, did you really think I'm straight? All these years living together, on the road, in motels? I thought you were supposed to be the smart one."

Sam forced some level of composure. "Guess I just don't pay that much attention to your sex life," he said in a way that wasn't nearly as casual or honest as he'd like. "Get up, you're sitting on the blankets."

Dean shifted, letting Sam slide beneath them. He had another one of those strange looks, and Sam was getting really fucking sick of them.

"What?" he asked irritably. "Did I sprout an extra head?"

Dean smiled cheekily and joined him under the covers like nothing strange had happened. "Not up there. As for lower…"

"Shut up," Sam muttered, then added, "Jerk." The night needed to end on a good note. It had to. It just. It really, really had to. He needed this. More, but this. This had to happen again.

"Bitch," Dean replied, sighing happily and snuggling into the bed. He yawned. "Get the lights?"

Sam groaned, rolled over, and flicked the switch. He stayed sprawled on his back for a moment, contemplating what position would give him the highest chance of ending up in physical contact with Dean before deciding all or none. This was night eight, and only on one of the previous seven mornings had he not woken up with some part of him touching Dean.

Feet and shins, really. That was all. They were both too tall to be sharing a double.

But it could be more than that, maybe.

Maybe.

Sam settled himself on his side again, facing Dean. Dean who always slept on his back, making any sort of spooning, accidental or otherwise, very difficult.

Except that one time.

God, how had he fallen asleep then?

_Shut up_, Sam told himself, and yawned. _Just shut up and go to sleep_.

_Easier said than done_, he thought before starting to drift off.

"Night, Sam."

Did they always used to say good night to each other? Every night? Did Dean usually use his name this often? Was his inflection different? Did he—

_Shut up._

"G'night, Dean," Sam echoed.

He shifted slightly, getting more comfortable, and his forehead knocked against Dean's shoulder.

They were _really_ too big to be in a double.

Sam decided that was excuse enough and didn't move away. Dean didn't say anything about it, and Sam was asleep a moment later.


	8. Touching Again

**A/N:** SO here's the story. I'm having chronic illness flareups and I finally had the ability to write this tonight. I know I've been keeping you all waiting and it's taken way too long to get this up, and that's why I _am_ putting it up now. I'm very tired but I have a doctor's appointment in an hour and can't go to sleep and I stayed up all night and everything is tired and painful and weird and I don't know when I'll get a chance to edit but I don't want to hold it back until I deem it perfect. And it has been edited some. Just probably not enough.

...also I could really use some comments because depression is part of the whole flareup business and yeah.

But yeah. Please don't judge too harshly?

**Chapter Eight: Touching Again**

It had been three days since Dean had first touched Sam, since Sam had woken up wrapped in Dean's arms, since they'd started getting each other off.

Three days, and every time it got better.

Aside from waking up cuddling; apparently that was a one-time thing.

But the rest. The hands. The closeness. The sense that something was changing, only it wasn't.

Three days, and they hadn't talked about it once.

Sam was going insane.

—

"How did I not notice you were into dudes?"

A strange silence fell between them, not exactly awkward but definitely strange, filled with Led Zeppelin.

"I'm reasonably discreet," Dean said, almost questioningly. "We spend most of our time in small, hick towns that aren't exactly dude-on-dude friendly."

"Right."

Robert Plant was singing about being a hunter. Dean liked to belt out this verse after a particularly good job.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sam asked.

Dean laughed uncomfortably. "I didn't think it mattered? Or you cared? Or you didn't know?"

"Right," Sam said again.

"Don't go all homophobe on me, Sammy," Dean said, and there was something awkward in his voice that Sam didn't understand. "It's not like you'd turn down a sweet cock."

"I, um, no, I wouldn't," Sam stammered. "I mean. I would if it was phrased like that. Good to know you're just as objectifying about guys as you are girls."

Dean glanced at Sam as Robert Smith said that he fell in love and had his heart broken. "That bee in your bonnet is certainly buzzing up a storm," he said.

"Nothing," Sam replied. "A bee in my bonnet? Really?"

"A big ol' whopper," Dean confirmed.

"Spiffing," Sam said, absentmindedly doing the accompanying little head shake he did when he found something particularly ironic.

_You can feel the beat within my heart_, Robert Plant sang. _Realize, sweet babe, we ain't ever gonna part._

_Spiffing_, Sam thought irritably.

"So want to tell me what this is actually about?" Dean asked several minutes later.

"Nothing," Sam replied, hoping he sounded confused and annoyed and not defensive.

"Afraid you've got competition?" Dean laughed.

"No!" Sam exclaimed. "That's not—no, Dean. God."

_Baby, baby, I want to leave you. I ain't joking I got to ramble._

He might be concerned, a little. He was more astounded that he'd never noticed, and had a sinking suspicion that it was because he hadn't wanted to. He had, a while ago, a _long_ while ago, when Sam had first realized he swung both ways when he was a teen, had wanted to see if it was something he could talk to Dean about. There had been nothing, not even a hint.

"I was surprised, that's all."

"You're an idiot," Dean said.

"Jerk," Sam snapped.

"Bitch."

By the time _Communication Breakdown_ came on, Sam was ready to punch something. Either Dean for refusing to talk or the CD for getting him so riled up, he wasn't sure yet.

Partway through _I Can't Quit You_, Dean all but slammed on the breaks, pulled over, and turned the car off, cutting off Zeppelin. Sam looked around. They were on a backroad in the middle of Nowhere, Montana on their way to Nowhere, Idaho, which was another Sam-had-lost-count number of hours away.

"Dean?"

Dean slumped down in his seat, wiggled around to get comfortable, and looked at Sam.

Sam knew that look.

"Dean, no. What?"

"You got me thinking," Dean said, waggling his eyebrows. "Past conquests. Old flames. One…failed, not-long-term affair…" Dean trailed off, then shook himself. "Anyway. I've got business."

Sam groaned, looking out the window. His heart and stomach were doing strange things he didn't understand and didn't want Dean to see, though looking away might still be suspicious. A failed, not-long-term affair? What? What was that? _When_ was that? How had Sam missed it?

_Stanford_, he thought vaguely. _Dean was busy being gay while I was in college._

"Not gonna join?" Dean asked, undoing his button and zipper.

"Of course I will," Sam snapped. "Just give me a minute to pretend we aren't doing this."

"Thought you got over that," Dean replied, again sounding confused. "It's been, what. Couple months now?"

_Eighty-eight days. Twelve and a half weeks. Almost three months._

"Something like," Sam said, wondering when he had gotten quite so desperate.

"Yeah, so?" Dean let out a choked moan, and Sam bit down hard on his cheek to keep from responding in kind. "What's the problem?"

"I don't even know where to start," Sam said, which was true.

"With lube?" Dean suggested. "Glove compartment."

Sam turned, and smacked his hand against the dashboard instead of anything graceful. It was just.

Something about Dean and his cock.

Again.

And.

It wasn't like Sam hadn't thought about doing things in the Impala before. It was impossible not to.

Especially when Dean was out late and the car smelled of sex the next morning which Sam hated mostly.

There might have been something about the middle of the night by the side of the road and other clichés.

Stars, maybe.

Dean was flushed, biting his lip, eyes closed, and really hard. From thinking about having sex with other men. Actual sex that he had actually had with actual other men.

_Not me_, that was Sam's point.

Which was idiotic because of course it wasn't. It never was. It was just more obviously distracting today.

And Dean looked obscenely—obscenely _Dean-like_, and Sam was jealous and bitter and very aroused and _wanted_.

"Lube?" Dean asked.

Sam cracked. He leaned over, braced an arm on either side of Dean, knocked his hand away, took him into his mouth and sucked.

Then he realized what he'd done, and froze.

With his mouth on Dean's cock.

And Dean wasn't moving, responding, anything, and Sam was going to—

"Oh _fuck_."

Dean's words were whispered, genuinely whispered. He grabbed Sam's shoulder, dug his fingers in hard enough to leave bruises, and thrust up.

Sam groaned, and Dean whimpered. This was—he didn't, couldn't think, he—he had Dean's cock in his mouth and nothing else mattered.

Except possibly the fact that he hadn't given a blowjob in so long he couldn't remember and Dean was probably expecting something other than sitting motionlessly in Sam's mouth.

Not that he was expecting that in the first place.

Which was why Sam really needed to do something.

He swirled his tongue along Dean's head, and was rewarded with another whimper. And a drop of precum that tasted like perfect and Sam couldn't think at all because it was—was too—too much. He wasn't going to last, and he was still in his pants and not being touched.

Sam flicked the seam where Dean's head met his shaft, and the noise he made wasn't one Sam had heard before. Somewhere between a whine and a moan and Sam-didn't-know-what but he loved it and needed more.

And Dean's cock was in his mouth and _jesus fucking christ_.

Sam was panicking, freaking out, and he knew it, but _Dean's cock was in his mouth_.

Sam swirled again, Dean made another undefinable noise, and Sam swallowed. It had been a while, and he choked when Dean hit the back of his throat. Dean let out a strangled moan and _grabbed_ his shoulder, pulling him down. Sam wasn't particularly concerned with things like breathing, was a lot more interested in _Dean's cock in his mouth and now throat because he was deepthroating him_, and made do. He swallowed around him and a shiver ran through Dean, and Sam thought he was trying not to push down his throat. He took him the rest of the way down anyway, eyes rolling back, moaning around him, and he could taste him and feel him and this was so much more, so much better than anything he could have ever thought.

"D-do_hhn_n—s-stop, Sa-_am_, I'm—"

Sam's heart exploded, his stomach twisted into a single butterfly, his toes curled, and he _moaned_. It wasn't the way he'd pictured Dean saying his name during sex, but Dean had _said his name during sex_, and all higher thought processes had shut down when he'd leaned over, so it didn't matter.

Dean growled and came and Sam pulled back so Dean's head was on his tongue and he could _taste_ and that was probably wrong and bad for a lot of reasons but none of it mattered. Dean was pulsing in his mouth and growling and arching up and his hand had moved from Sam's shoulder to his head, tangling in his hair, and Sam shifted his weight and wrapped his hand around Dean's base and the growl turned into a wordless cry and Dean was still coming and then Sam was licking him clean and panicking because it was real now, they'd have to talk about it or do something or something and he couldn't think and he let Dean's cock slide from his mouth and tucked him back into his jeans and sat back up.

Fallout.

There was going to be fallout.

He could still taste Dean's come.

He was so hard it hurt and could probably come from a strong wind.

He still couldn't think because he could still taste Dean's come and Dean had come in his mouth and now there was going to be fallout and maybe he should get out of the car and start running before Dean could start talking or not talking which would be worse because if they didn't talk about this then—then…

Sam didn't know what but he supposed he was about to find out because there was no chance in hell Dean was going to talk about that.

"Dude."

Sam let out a breathless, shaky laugh, hands on his thighs, eyes straight ahead, and ready to run. "Ye—" He cleared his throat, which was sore and scratchy and perfect, and tried again. "Yeah."

Dean didn't say anything else, and when Sam finally worked up the courage to glance at him, he was exactly where Sam had left him. Too blissed out to move, apparently. Or too freaked to figure out what to do. But, judging from his expression, probably the first.

Sam didn't know what to do with that, so he went back to looking straight ahead at the plains stretching out in front of them.

"Y'know." Dean cleared his throat and the seat shifted as he sat back up. "If you wanted me to blow you, all you had to do was ask."

Sam gaped at him, and Dean laughed, only he was still in the haze of afterglow and his expression was sweet instead of teasing.

"Wh—what, I didn't—I—"

"Oh, you didn't?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow, but he genuinely didn't seem to be mocking.

_Just the afterglow_, Sam thought wildly.

"Asking about my past, my gender preferences, who I sleep around with," Dean continued, and he was sliding across the seat, crowding into Sam's space. "Don't get me wrong, you taking control was, well." His eyes darkened and Sam dug his fingers into his thighs because Dean was aroused by the thought of him being in control and that was. "But really Sammy, all you had to do was…ask."

Dean rested a hand on Sam's bulge, their eyes locked, he was still flushed and breathing harder than usual, his hair mussed, and Sam pushed away, slammed back against the door, and knocked Dean's hand away. Dean's eyes widened in shocked confusion and he jerked back as well, nearly impaling himself on the gear shift, looking like Sam had just kicked him in the balls.

"What the hell—"

"No," Sam breathed, panted really, gripping the leather of the seat, willing himself under control. "No, I—I'm sorry, I didn't—I just—" He turned a deep, deep red and looked away. "Gonna come," he muttered, preparing himself for the deluge of taunting coming his way.

It didn't happen.

Instead the seat creaked, warmth pressed against him, and a strong, calloused finger turned Sam to face him.

Dean this close was intoxicating and deadly and Sam was going to kiss him if something didn't change immediately.

"Never be embarrassed to get turned on by me," Dean said seriously, the corners of his lips twitching up in a smile—a _silly_ smile, joking but not mocking. Sam didn't understand why he wasn't being torn apart. "I have a destiny and a purpose on earth and it is to be a sexy motherfucker badass. If getting me off makes you come in your pants then by god, Sam, never stop touching me."

Sam sneered and batted Dean's hand away, but it still wasn't their usual banter. Dean's voice was softer, almost reassuring, and there was something between them, or maybe Sam was hallucinating, either way.

"Nice, Dean," he said irritably, only he couldn't really argue because he was throbbing, jeans so tight it _did_ hurt, never mind almost, the wet spot on his boxers was going to leak through the denim any second now, and never not touching Dean sounded pretty goddamned perfect.

"Want me to take care of that now, or do you need a moment to collect yourself after the awesomeness that is my dick?" Dean asked, nodding at Sam's erection.

Why wasn't this actual teasing? What was different? What had changed? Sam knew he always thought something was going to change and it never did, but it had, it really fucking had, already had, and _what was it_?

"Now," he choked out. "Now's—fine."

"I gotta teach you a word other than fine," Dean said, shaking his head in mock disappointment. He was fast, his hands were fast, and Sam's cock was free before he fully registered what had happened, and then there was warm breath on him and then _heat_ and _tight_ and _suction_ and _**Dean**_.

Sam came immediately, slamming his head back on the passenger side window, nearly ripping the leather digging his nails in, tensing, arching, pushing, everything that was him pouring into Dean, all his breath escaping in a loud, low groan that was unmistakably Dean's name.

Coming down was akin to paragliding off Mount Everest, all strong winds and deadly spikes and flying and falling and a distinct sense of _I might die and that would be fuckin' a_. Dean took care of him the same way Sam had for him, making sure he was clean before tucking him away, and Sam nearly grabbed out for him so he wouldn't move, go back to his side of the car, but he controlled himself. It didn't matter; Dean stayed where he was.

Maybe because, along with impromptu blowjobs, Sam had just moaned his name.

Maybe that was the line where they needed to talk.

Instead, they stayed quiet. Sam didn't dare open his eyes or move, not even enough to get the window crank out of his back, or say something as simple as an apology or denial or legitimate reason for what he'd said.

"Kinda tired," Dean said, and his voice was so sudden that Sam jumped, driving the crank further into his back. "Want to drive for a while?"

"Uh." Given that Sam couldn't get his thoughts together enough to figure out whether or not he was capable of doing so, he figured probably not. "No."

Dean sighed dramatically. "Shove over, then."

"I can't," Sam said, starting to come back, at least a little. "There's already things digging into me."

Dean snorted, and a little bit of normalcy returned. "Fix it. I know you're a giant but we've slept in the car plenty of times before and I know you can manage."

Sam rolled his eyes but did as Dean said, reaching into the back seat and grabbing the pillow they kept there for exactly this purpose, getting himself as comfortable as possible.

The thing was, Dean didn't actually sound tired or sleepy. A little worn out from driving for so long, a bit out of it from their activities, but not the sort of bone-dead exhaustion that required a nap by the side of the road. Nor was he kicking Sam to the backseat, which is what he usually did when they slept in the Impala, Sam realized. It seemed sort of like he was doing the opposite, making sure Sam was comfortable before—

Dean leaned against him, forcing one of Sam's arms to rest uncomfortably on the back of the seat, squishing him awkwardly against the door, trapping his legs in a supremely uncomfortable half on-the-seat, half off-the-seat position.

Dean wanted to cuddle.

After having sex.

_Not actual sex_.

Sex enough.

Dean Winchester wanted to be held after sex.

"Hey," Sam said indignantly, much too late to be indignant.

"I told you to get comfortable," Dean grumbled, but allowed himself to be moved around, only purposefully elbowing Sam two or three times and outright hitting him once. The Winchester equivalent of gently stroking Sam's hair.

They ended up with Sam half sitting up and leaning against the door, Dean wedged between his legs, knocking one off the seats, curled on Sam's chest, one of Sam's arms draped over his shoulder and the other wrapped around his waist. It was actually quite cozy, except that Sam's heart was beating so loudly he thought he might be having a heart attack, and the fact that Dean could almost certainly hear it only made it worse.

Sam thought he should probably insult Dean before he said something like _this is perfect please don't ever leave_ but he couldn't think of anything.

"I can hear you thinking," Dean muttered. "Can't fuckin' sleep when you're thinking like that."

"I'm so sorry I have a working brain," Sam replied, silently thanking god that Dean was so consistently sarcastic. "Thank god you aren't the smart one or you'd never get any rest."

Dean smacked his shoulder. "Shut up."

Yes, that. Shutting up. Otherwise.

_I love you._

"G'night, Dean."

Sam could feel the shiver that swept through Dean, and froze. Dean liked hearing his name, how had Sam just remembered that now? But that had been in a joking way, mostly. Definitely not a moaning-as-he-came way.

"Night."

Sam had to try.

Just once.

Just to see.

"Sleep well, _Dean_."

There wasn't a shiver this time, but the sudden intake of breath and very, very slight jerk of his hips was more than enough to confirm.

_fuckfuckfuck_

"You too, _Sam_," Dean replied snidely, not a trace of anything out of the ordinary. "We done, or are we just going to repeat each other's names all night long?"

Sam no longer had the ability to think of a reply, and Dean didn't seem to either.

"You wish we were," Dean said eventually. "You wish _you_ were. Some of us aren't so—."

Pathetic was the word that usually came at the end of that sentence, and Sam had no idea if Dean had cut himself off so Sam wouldn't tease him back or because he didn't want to tease Sam in the first place.

"Never mind," Dean muttered, relaxing again. Almost relaxing. "Shut up and let me sleep."

"It's always my fault," Sam mock-whined.

_Dean gets turned on by hearing me moan his name when I come in his mouth._

"And finally, you understand," Dean replied with no venom whatsoever. He did sound sleepy now, just not pull-over-by-the-side-of-the-road sleepy. Post-sex sleepy instead. "Now if you'd just shut that trap of yours, we'd be getting somewhere."

"Goodnight," Sam said pointedly. "Jerk."

Dean relaxed the rest of the way, and Sam couldn't help a small smile.

"Happy dreams, sissy bitch."

Sam sort of wanted to stay up and process, because _fuck_ he had a lot to process, but his eyes were closing and he didn't think he had much say in the matter. He'd process later. Right now sleep sounded really good.

He almost kissed the top of Dean's head without thinking, or maybe he did, and then he was out.


	9. Talking Again

**A/N: **I am so sorry this took so long. I'm still flaring (thanks for the well-wishes 3) and Camp NaNo started a few days ago (you can read the fanfic bits of it over on my AO3; same username), and I slept through yesterday. But ta da! A chapter!

...half a chapter, actually. Y'all win. There's gonna be ten. I couldn't help it. I didn't add in anything that I wasn't expecting, I just forget that when Sam needs to talk, he talks. Anyway, I can't promise when the next (and last, for reals) chapter will be up, but I am still working on this despite flares and NaNo (obviously), so don't give up on me.

I love you all :3

_ETA: Now with edits!_

**Chapter Nine: Talking Again**

They were back on the road when Sam woke up. Dean was no longer curled up on top of him—of course not, he was driving—but Sam's feet were pressed against his legs and, even while wearing shoes, that was a lot better than if they weren't.

…that was a problem. A serious problem. Sam knew full well that he already had way more emotional and physical needs from Dean than Dean had of him, but if shoe-to-jean-covered-thigh contact was enough to make him happy, that was definitely a problem.

And in that moment, Sam made a decision.

They needed to talk.

Actually talk.

Now.

"Dean?"

Dean glanced over at him, and it was very difficult not to think about the look on his face when he'd been sucking Sam off.

"You're finally awake," he said. He sounded the same as always, like nothing had changed, and that was a problem. "Took you long enough; I've been driving for almost two hours."

"Yeah, okay," Sam replied, not really thinking. He pushed himself up into a more comfortable position, losing the shoe-to-jean-covered-thigh contact in favor of not breaking his back. "We need to talk."

Dean groaned. "Why? About what? Things are fine."

"No, they're not."

Dean looked at him again, and Sam realized how big a mistake that had been. It sounded like he wanted to stop. Like he didn't want it. Like something was wrong.

He shouldn't have started talking in the first place.

"You seemed pretty fine earlier," Dean said, but he was watching the road and his voice was guarded.

"That was—y-yeah, fine," Sam stammered and it had been except for all the reasons it wasn't. "Good, it was really good. But, um." He licked his lips, unsure how to continue. Dean wasn't helping, of course, just sitting there in a tense, awkward silence. "I just think we need to—"

"We don't need to do anything," Dean interrupted sharply. "Things are fine."

Sam's stomach started twisting angrily. "They're obviously not, and—"

"No ands," Dean snapped. "Don't."

"Don't what?" Sam asked, starting to sound as angry as Dean, not meaning to. It was anger or breaking down, and yelling was as ingrained into him as choosing fight over flight. "We've been not talking about this for a really long time now—" _Longer than you know_, Sam thought silently, "—and it has to stop."

Dean's lips thinned and the muscle in his jaw was woking, rhythmically clenching and unclenching. "Fine. It's stopped."

Sam broke out in goosebumps, actual, literally goosebumps, and he could have sworn someone had dumped ice water down the back of his neck. "N-no, I didn't mean—not stopping, not—I don't want to stop, I just meant—"

"Then what's the problem?" Dean yelled. "What, exactly, does the great Sam Winchester, king of emotions, mean?"

Sam opened his mouth, absolutely positive something clever and articulate and reasonable was going to come out. "Nothing," he said instead, voice dropped, only a few decibels above a whisper. "Nothing, it's nothing. I'm sorry."

"Fine."

Dean turned the stereo on, Zeppelin blared, and the conversation was over.

_He knows_, Sam thought emotionlessly, watching the plains turn into mountains. _He knows this is more than sex. He knows I need more. He knows I need him, I love him, and he doesn't want me to say it._

_At least he doesn't want it to stop._

_It's convenient. A convenient way to get laid. That's it._

_He's not getting laid._

_…will be soon. Getting kind of inevitable._

Sam forced his mind blank. He couldn't have sex with Dean. Not more than they were doing. He meant it, he had to mean it, and he absolutely had to act on it. Not act on it, rather. He'd tried to draw the line before: first tried to stop it completely and then from progressing further, but he had to this time. Dean could make fun of him all he wanted and Sam would make up some sort of excuse, but he couldn't handle the lack of emotional attachment combined with an act that intimate.

Nor did he think that was a bad thing, in fact.

But Dean was Dean so there'd have to be an excuse unless Sam really _did_ want to straight up tell Dean that he was in love with him, and that didn't sound appealing.

At all.

As in never.

—

Things didn't smooth out during the job.

Six demons had invaded a hospital, switching bodies every few minutes, their only goal to kill as many as violently as possible. The hospital was under quarantine, police, troopers, FBI, SWAT, you-name-it outside trying to figure out what the fuck was going on, and it had been easy enough for Sam and Dean to slip in without being noticed. At first the demons had laughed at them, but it only took one of Sam's handy exorcisms to scatter them.

Sam and Dean had needed to split up as well, and Sam spent the entire time flipping between miserable and angry at Dean and terrified that Dean was lying dead somewhere, blood splattered everywhere, soul somehow dragged back down to hell even though that made no sense. Sam managed to exorcise the next three demons without a problem, and it was only then that he realized he and Dean had left their phones in the car and had no way of getting in touch.

The resulting sprint throughout the hospital, frantically screaming Dean's name, had not been the highlight of Sam's hunting career. Or his relationship with Dean, who started yelling at him as soon as he found him, going off about how unprofessional and dangerous it is to be advertising his location like that, and it was lucky he hadn't gotten the both of them killed.

Then the last of the demons _had_ almost killed them, which made Dean even more furious than usual.

They were also covered in blood, and Dean nearly got himself arrested for antagonizing the head of the SWAT team while looking like the killer himself. It was only through good fake badges, better luck, and an alarmingly convincing calm Sam forced himself into that they were allowed to leave. Dean spent the drive back to their motel muttering angrily under his breath about demons, powers, and blood in his Baby while Sam grasped at the last vestiges of his calm. He was hyped up from his powers, overtired from having stayed up all night, on edge from dealing with that many demons who had that many bodies to possess and were that violent, and frankly terrified of whatever was happening between Dean and himself. There had been riffs and chasms between then before, more than Sam could count, but Dean had never seemed so close to just _leaving_.

He couldn't leave. He wouldn't. Rationally, Sam knew that.

Right now, though?

Right now rationality was a long ways away.

—

They parked behind the motel down an alleyway where no one would see the blood-soaked leather. A flash of jealousy coursed through Sam at the way Dean's fingers trailed along her steering wheel; it was idiotic, but they hadn't ever _touched_, not like that, and Sam wanted.

Of course he did.

He wanted everything.

Then there was the traditional sneaking-around-the-motel-race to see who could get to the bathroom and clean off without being caught by anyone who might ask about the blood. Dean won, barely, and Sam accidentally left half a bloody handprint on the bathroom door from slamming his fist against it while Dean crowed that he would always be better, smarter, faster, and everything else he thought of. Sam spent Dean's shower scrubbing away the handprint, and the ones on the front door from coming inside, and then figuring out how to undress without blood permanently absorbing into and staining the carpet.

When Dean came out of the bathroom, Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed, naked, making absolutely certain he wasn't getting blood everywhere. Dean, on the other hand, was wrapped in a fluffy white towel, steam billowing around him, water dripping down his torso accentuating every perfectly defined, blood-free muscle.

"Who knew hospitals had so much blood in them, eh?" Dean asked happily, flopping onto his own bed.

Sam glared at him. "Good to know your five hour shower cheered you up."

Dean grinned. "You bet it did."

"Jerk," Sam muttered, and slammed the bathroom door behind himself.

"You're cleaning Baby!" Dean called after him. "It's your turn!"

"Over my dead body!" Sam yelled back before turning on the shower and drowning out any response.

A cold shower, because Dean hadn't left him any hot water.

"I hate you!" Sam screamed, and he could have sworn he heard Dean laughing.

Sam spent as little time in the shower as possible, scrubbing off the crusted-on blood, giving his hair a cursory rinse, and that was it. He dried himself off as quickly as possible, but he was still shivering when he came out, thinking about nothing other than how many blankets his bed had and how soft the sheets were.

"You look freezing."

Sam looked over at Dean, who was sprawled naked on one of the two beds.

"Wonder why," Sam snapped, heading for the other bed as quickly as possible.

"Where're you going?" Dean asked, and while he almost sounded casual, Sam could hear the strain beneath it.

"Blankets," Sam answered before thinking, then quickly added, "Unless you have a better idea."

"Course I do," Dean replied easily. He patted the empty space next to himself. "Blankets are lame. Get over here."

Sam hesitated for a split second before dropping his towel to the floor and sitting next to Dean. "Just remember I'm cold."

Dean grinned at him. "I'm pretty sure I know how big your dick is by now."

Sam flushed. "Yeah, well. Then get to warming."

Dean rolled onto his stomach, slowly licked his lips, and started trailing a hand up Sam's thigh. "This is what you want?"

Sam froze. "I—sorry? Are you really asking me if I want a blowjob?" he asked, knowing that wasn't at all what this was about.

Dean drew his lower lip between his teeth, and Sam let out a quick puff of air.

"Yeah, I guess I am. Making sure it's not too far, or whatever you've been saying."

Sam forced himself to look normal, sound normal, say normal things. "It's not too far. Obviously, or I wouldn't have sucked you off last night."

Dean placed a gentle kiss on Sam's thigh, still tracing patterns along the sensitive skin, and Sam gasped. They hadn't—kissing wasn't, even like—Dean had—

"Is that?" Dean asked softly, and oh fucking Christ he did know.

"I—" Sam needed to talk. He'd wanted to talk. Talking was necessary. Only there were no more words available, nothing he could say that would get him out of this alive, and he was shaking but at least he could blame that on the cold. "Y-yeah."

_You promised yourself._

_Shut the fuck up._

"Hm." Dean's hand trailed up to Sam's hip, bypassing his erection but only barely. Sam whimpered, thrusting up, which Dean completely ignored. Instead he used his thumb to rub circles into Sam's hip, lips resting on Sam's thigh but not doing anything else, and Sam was shaking and couldn't stop and his heart was doing strange things that almost hurt but also were perfect, and Dean needed to _do_ something _now_.

"Dean?" The word escaped as a whisper, a fucking terrified whisper, but it worked. Dean let out a low rumble that reverberated through Sam before licking a stripe along his thigh, stopping just shy of his balls. Sam let out a quiet cry, hips jerking up again, heart still twisting uncomfortably but perfectly, hands balled tightly in the blankets, making absolutely certain he didn't touch Dean. He didn't know exactly why that was so important, but it really seemed like it was.

"Okay?" Dean asked, voice just slightly huskier than before.

"Yes," Sam murmured, ignoring the part of his brain that was screaming _no_ very loudly. "Why—"

Dean nuzzled his balls, just slightly, but Sam could feel his breath, could feel skin-on-skin, could _definitely_ feel the sparks of pleasure shooting out, the way he was suddenly as close as he'd been the night before, how mortifying that was, how little he could help it.

Dean was going to give him a blowjob—_again_—and that fact alone was _more_ than enough.

"Too far?" Dean hummed, the vibration too much, too good, and Sam let out an involuntary breathy moan.

"No, no it's—" Sam was so muddled, thinking was so hard when Dean's _face_ was in his _crotch_, and apparently Dean thought _now_ was the optimal time for a conversation. Or he was teasing. Or something else that Sam couldn't think of because he _couldn't fucking think with _**_Dean's face in his crotch_**. "Please?"

For a split second, so fast it almost didn't happen, Dean rubbed his cheek against Sam's thigh. Comforting. Sweetly. _Lovingly_. And with a day-and-a-half's worth of stubble and so close to all the right places. He hummed again and bushed his lips along Sam's sac, not kissing or licking, mouth closed, but breathing and the suggestion and the lightest of pressure and—

"_Fuck_."

"Gonna come before you're in my mouth, Sammy?" Dean asked, continuing to mouth his balls, not letting up and not adding more and _more_, Sam needed more _now_, and he pushed up unthinkingly but Dean stayed with him, keeping the pressure so light it nearly tickled, and Sam vaguely thought there was a question he needed to answer, only he couldn't.

Because Dean's mouth was on his balls.

Because he was in love with Dean and Dean wasn't in love with him.

Because he had promised himself it wouldn't go farther—or maybe that it would stop altogether, he couldn't remember—and it was and it couldn't stop but it had to but it couldn't.

Dean opened his mouth, breathed hot, moist air on him, and slowly, so slowly, ran his tongue along the bottom of Sam's balls, rolling them together, and he kept his mouth open, not licking again, but open and breathing and teasing and Sam was whimpering, falling back against the headboard and lodging himself at a horrible angle, completely unable to rearrange himself or stop or do anything other than feel.

Still feather-light, Dean's tongue trailed lower, pressing along his perineum, swiping over the small stretch of skin a maddeningly short number of times, before gently, so fucking gently, brushing Sam's hole.

Sam tensed, every muscle tightening, and maybe he was going to come before Dean blew him, except he was about to cry, was almost as close to that as he was coming, and it actually had to stop.

Now.

"That feel—"

"No," Sam interrupted, hating himself, knowing he was destroying his only chance, hating himself for always being the mature, responsible one, wishing just once he could let go.

But it was better this way. He knew it was.

Even if he thought he might be actively dying.

"Y-yeah, I mean—good, it's—" Sam took a deep breath and scooted back up so he was sitting again, so Dean's face wasn't quite so close, so he could no longer feel his breath on his skin. "I—n-no, it's." He took another breath, hoping Dean would interrupt him, but he didn't. Complete silence. "T-too. Um. Too far."

Dean was still quiet. Was he waiting for Sam to continue? For an explanation? Trying to figure out a way to get himself out of this before it got any worse? Trying to fix what could never, ever be fixed? What Sam had broken forever, had _allowed_ to be broken forever?

Not that Sam was saying anything either. He had a vague notion of apologizing but that seemed worse than nothing, and anyway it was Dean's turn to talk, wasn't it?

"Everything, or…?"

Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Yes, everything. From the very beginning it had been too far. But he had been handling it, hadn't he? Mutual masturbation, that hadn't been so bad. There had been no emotional breakdown. And the same bed, that had been good. It had been pretending, and that was bad, yes, intellectually that was very bad, but it was good and Sam was willing to sacrifice that piece of his sanity to continue.

Touching, though. It had escalated so quickly from handjobs to blowjobs to whatever Dean had been about to do, and Sam didn't know, how could he possibly know when all he wanted to do was take it back and pretend he'd never said anything and find out exactly what Dean was about to do with his tongue?

"I—I don't—."

Sam had to look away. Not that he'd been looking at Dean, that was obviously a horrible idea, but he really was dangerously close to tears and Dean knew him too well, he'd know immediately, but he'd also probably let Sam pretend he wasn't, as long as they weren't making eye contact.

"I don't know," Sam finished, the words sounding like they were coming from someone else, someone far away who wasn't Sam because it couldn't be Sam, that was just dumb. "Maybe."

The bed shifted as Dean let out a deep sigh, and without looking Sam knew he had sat up and was running a hand over his face the way he did when he was upset, more than upset, and it was Sam's fault and he had to fix it, only he couldn't.

"Sam."

Hearing his name like that was worse than a gunshot, than a knife tearing through him, and he waited in silence for Dean to finish his thought. With every second that ticked by it seemed more and more like that _was_ his thought, like there wasn't anything more, but if Sam tried to talk he'd end up crying, and that was a big, fat no.

"I—I'm sorry."

Sam froze.

_What?_

He could probably count the number of times Dean had apologized on one hand, and now he was, and for what? For not being in love with his own fucking brother? That wasn't exactly something that needed an apology. For letting it continue after he knew? No, Dean wouldn't do that, he couldn't have known before now.

He couldn't let Dean take the blame for this. It was Sam's fault, Sam had allowed it, Sam had known better, and Sam deserved the guilt. Nothing about this could be pinned on Dean.

"You don't—you don't owe me an apology," Sam said tonelessly. "I shouldn't have—i-it's fine, okay? We'll just forget it ever happened."

Which was clearly, obviously impossible, but what else was he going to do? Beg Dean not to leave him?

…yeah, probably. He'd do that. But not yet, not if there was another way.

"I started it," Dean said almost angrily. "Back in Nebraska. With that porno. You didn't do anything."

"I—yes, I—" Sam was lost. How was this turning into an argument? Even more, a self-pitying argument, and that wasn't something Dean did. Sam was aware that he himself could have a bit of a martyr complex, but Dean?

Well, maybe sometimes.

But not about things like this.

Not that there was anything like this.

"Don't go martyring yourself over what I did," Sam said, because Dean did have a martyr complex, and Sam had forgotten that, forgotten that if he stopped things Dean would blame himself, and that was so completely unacceptable it felt like Sam was going to explode with need to fix it. "I could have said no. I could have kicked you out, or stopped, or whatever. This is on me."

"You always fuckin' do this," Dean said, and yes, he was yelling, at least almost. "This isn't some goddamned job where you can't tell right from wrong, or another fight about Dad. You genuinely, honestly did nothing wrong. Don't fuckin' make me say it."

Sam's head reeled. Say what? _Had_ Dean known from the beginning? Or was he apologizing for not having realized sooner? Did he just not want to acknowledge anything about Sam's feelings at all (which would be a huge bonus)? Did he just want Sam to forget about it?

Not that he could.

"Okay, fine, technically it can't be helped, but it's still not your responsibility to take care of me," Sam replied, and he honestly couldn't tell if he was raising his voice as well. He was too upset. But at least he could pull a Clinton and talk about _it_ instead of anything more damning. "I'm not a kid. I don't need you looking out for me."

The bed creaked as Dean turned to look at him, boring holes through the back of Sam's head.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Sam almost turned to look at him but instead furrowed his eyebrows at the wall, completely lost.

"I can take care of myself," he repeated slowly. "This is my problem, it was up to me to stop it, and I didn't."

The silence was long, very long, terrifyingly long, and when Dean finally did break it, he sounded strange, nothing Sam recognized.

"What, exactly, is your problem?"

More silence, because Sam had no idea what they were talking about anymore. If Dean actually didn't know, then why the fuck did he think they were stopping? He wasn't about to come out and say _because I'm in love with you_ if Dean thought it was some hangup about incest (which did actually make sense, way too much sense, when exactly had Sam forgotten they were brothers?) or being gay (which made very little sense) or whatever it was he thought? If Dean didn't know, there was no chance in hell Sam was going to tell him.

"That, um." Sam didn't know what the rest of that sentence was supposed to be. "What do you think it is?"

"I don't have a fuckin' clue," Dean replied, still sounding weird, especially since he wasn't shouting anymore. "If you're so convinced it's your fault, fine. Go. Tell me why. You talk first."

_Shit._

That was not the desired outcome.

On the other hand, this conversation was going on for far too long and they needed to start pretending it had never happened sooner rather than later, so why the fuck not.

Aside from all the reasons not to.

"That I have." Sam cleared his throat. "Feelings?"

Dean huffed. "Yeah, I got that. Wanna tell me what they are?"

_No, not really_.

But begging Dean not to make him say it hadn't worked, and they were long past that anyway.

"For." Sam licked his lips. He could do this. Like a bandaid, just rip it off and get it over with. "You, that I have feelings for you, that I've been in love with you since I can remember and—"

Strong hands were at his shoulders, whirling him around, and suddenly he was staring into Dean's eyes, huge and green and dark and shining and then he couldn't see anymore because Dean crashed their lips together, too violent to be called a kiss except it was, and Sam couldn't do anything but sit there, stunned.

"You fucking idiot," Dean mumbled against his lips, still not breaking the kiss, and Sam was almost aware enough of what was happen to respond but not quite yet because was Dean actually kissing him? "I started it, why did you think I started it?"

That was sort of an interesting question, somewhere far away where Sam could think, but he was pretty sure Dean was kissing him.

"Because you." And now Dean's words were completely smeared together, unintelligible except Sam knew him to well for anything to be really unintelligible. "Thought it was all I could get."

Sam's stomach lurched. That was—that—Dean—

He grabbed Dean's face, finally kissing him back. Dean moaned, and Sam nearly stopped again, short circuited enough that any movements at all were impossible, but some base part of him was running the show now and stopping was nowhere close to an option. He licked Dean's mouth open and then their tongues were dueling as well, still too much teeth and too hard but who the fuck cared? It was so much better than anything Sam had ever imagined and it could last forever and still not go on long enough.

Dean tasted like black coffee and classic car and sweat and motel soap and a deep, full, addicting musk that was pure _Dean_.

Dean tore himself away, hands sliding up to wind through Sam's hair while Sam's stayed on his face. Their eyes met again, and now it was obvious. All the lust and desire and want and need and—_ohgod_—love from the past who-knows-how-many years reflected back at him. Sam couldn't breathe and he didn't know why they weren't kissing anymore but he couldn't think well enough to do anything but what he was currently doing.

Staring into Dean's eyes, that's what he was currently doing.

"Do you need to talk?" Dean asked, voice strangled. "I can't—don't make me stop again."

Sam let out a breathy whimper. "No. Yes. I don't—" Dean interrupted him with a kiss, a soft kiss, red and swollen lips pressing lightly against Sam's. It helped steady him, and god, how could Dean possibly know that? "Dean?"

Dean sighed quietly, not sounding upset, just like their world was flipping and spinning and tilting and breaking apart to form something new and different and so, so much better. He leaned their foreheads together. "Yeah, Sam?"

Sam licked his lips, and they were close enough that he brushed Dean's as well.

"I told you I love you," he said quietly. "Don't you think we need to talk about that?"

"No," Dean said. "Do you?"

Sam processed this. Tried to. Everything was so difficult, he couldn't figure it out, and it felt like his head was going to burst with confusion and grinding gears and what, exactly, was happening?

"Want—" He stopped, cleared his throat. "D'you want to maybe say it back?"

Dean laughed, not unkindly. "Jesus, Sam, you're such a fucking girl."

Sam waited, but that was apparently all Dean was going to say.

His head hurt.

"Dean."

Dean kissed him again, and it almost fixed his head, drove out everything that wasn't Dean and now and perfect and did Dean know how soft his lips were, because they were really fucking soft.

But Sam couldn't stop himself from thinking, he never could, Dean had yelled at him so many times about it but he'd saved their lives a thousand times over by memorizing some ancient ritual or double checking that they had salt or—

_Focus._

Sam pulled away, just slightly, just enough to break the kiss.

"Please? I-if." Sam cursed himself. "If you do. I know it's going to be a—a thing, you'll never—that's fine, but once. Now. Yeah. I need to talk. I need that."

Dean groaned, head falling down to rest on Sam's shoulder, sort of but not quite in the crook of Sam's neck.

"C'mon."

Doubt started creeping in, the same way it always did when it came to Dean, and Sam's displaced hands dropped to Dean's waist, only they were at an awkward angle, so one was on his hip and the other on his thigh.

"Dean."

"Fucking hell." Dean took a deep breath, exhaling warmth on Sam's shoulder. "Sam—Sammy, god, there's just no pleasing you, is there?"

Sam stayed where he was, only not pulling away because he was glued in place. Dean didn't. He felt—wanted—something, something more than there had been, but not what Sam—not as much, not the same—

"If you do," Sam repeated.

"You're a goddamned idiot," Dean said, turning his face in so it was pressed against Sam's neck. Hiding, almost definitely. It was some sort of adorable, Sam thought. Assuming it meant what he thought it meant.

Thought? Hoped? He had no idea.

"Yeah, Sammy," he mumbled, lips sliding along Sam's neck, sending shivers through him. Shivers, sparks, everything, and Sam moved a hand to Dean's back, gently stroking along overheated skin with something like wonder. "I fuckin' love you. We done?"

Sam let out a quiet, measured breath.

His head stopped hurting. Thought vacated completely, leaving only Dean and himself in its wake.

"I seriously hope not," Sam said. "Weren't you doing something fantastic with your tongue?"

Dean sat up, grinning, all predator and Sam happily melted into prey.

"Yeah, pretty sure I was."


End file.
